This Shadow's Coil
by Blue-Inked Frost
Summary: Remnants of the past have long held Dragon City in thrall. Ancient mistakes linger, and prophesied destinies approach through buried power.
1. Part One

**A/N:** This is and will continue to be AU from approximately episode twenty-seven. Cross-posted from the board. Will probably end up being around five parts.

--

He finished scraping away the earth from the inscription set below the empty grave with a spare piece of trapping gear, and raised the amulet to face it. It was written in a dialect he did not understand, but he would find a translator later; though Armeggaddon was a useful ally, Moordryd Paynn had not been brought up to trust anyone entirely.

"Well done, my chosen heir. You do well as a replacement to rule over the Black Draconium Empire." It pulsed as if in approval of his skills, but Moordryd cared nothing for these half-praises.

"_Replacement_?" His hand tightened into a fist. "I found you first. I'm your only heir."

Armeggaddon laughed. "You did not assume that I had never engendered a successor in my own lifetime?"

_Of course._ He had never stopped to consider that Armeggaddon might have once been so human as to sire a child. "You…had kids?"

"A daughter. I might say you remind me of her; likewise she was a fair youth—though her advantages of birth and upbringing far outweighed yours—but I would as truly claim your minion reminded me of my second wife."

"Second wife, huh?" He'd have to mention that to Cain; it'd be worth a laugh. Maybe he'd even imply that Armeggaddon had only had one so far.

"Lucivar of the Red Draconium Empire. A marriage of convenience which ultimately failed to gain me the necessary support. My Joana was a worthier warrior."

"First wife?" Armeggaddon speaking as though he was actually human was rare; the more Moordryd knew about him, the better a chance he had to wrest power from his mentor. "What happened to her?"

"Dead in battle against the minions of the Dragon Booster. Meggine avenged her; at that time she would have been two years younger than you and yet won her battle."

_Lucivar, Joana, Meggine_. Three names worth searching for.

"What happened to Meggine? Was she your daughter?"

"It has been three thousand years since I last saw her; what do you EXPECT?" The amulet's fire flashed angrily.

"Okay, okay." Moordryd leaned back from the amulet. "Keep your scales on. I just wondered if she died in the war."

"You already have your answer. Now leave me to meditate on your future, apprentice."

The amulet fell silent; he would have to make his own way out of the cave, it seemed, but that would be easy enough. He took a spare sheet of parchment from his pack, and quickly ran charcoal over it while he held it pressed to the stone.

"'Cepshun? Ready to go?" he queried, looking back at her swishing her tail in slight impatience. She magged him on, and he smiled to himself as they flawlessly navigated the path out of the old temple.

It would be the second last occasion Armeggaddon was to speak to him.

--

"Easy, stableboy." She ran a hand gently through his dark hair. She could remember calling him that, a long time ago; it no longer suited him, but everyone needed a bit of deflation sometimes.

He laughed, gazing up into her eyes. "I remember when you called me that all the time."

"I'd hoped you weren't losing your memory. It wasn't _that_ long ago," she said, slightly sharply, and noticed that he seemed to draw his eyebrows together in surprise. She couldn't remember the exact date herself—there wasn't one, of course—but it must have been a while since she'd used the nickname, she thought.

"I have a great memory." He sat up on the recliner, and put an arm around her waist to draw her towards him. "I've got that meeting with Mortis, but there's still time before then…"

She stiffened, and he drew back, staring at her. "What's the matter?"

She shook her head, bewildered at herself. "Nothing, Artha. I'm fine." She leaned forward and kissed him, fiercely; she could taste the faint flavour of apples on his lips, and a slight tang of metal overlaying the feel of him, as warm and familiar as the feel of the sun on her skin these past years.

"I'm glad," he said breathlessly as she pulled away from him, looking slightly reddened and tousled. "I couldn't let anything upset you."

She laughed—giggled, rather, and slid even closer to him. "I know, hero. I know."

--

The translator lived in a run-down shack in the darkest part of Work Town, huddled next to a giant factory spewing black smoke into the air. Moordryd resisted the urge to break into a coughing fit as he made his way down the road to knock on the door.

It took three loud bouts of knocking before finally someone appeared, a man in dark glasses (in _Work Town_, Moordryd thought in slight disbelief; it was one thing to be forced to adopt the stupid-looking style in Sun City depending on whether your ancestors were self-made businessmen or aristocratic bludgers, but here there was no excuse) with ink stains covering his hands.

"Did you knock?" he demanded.

"No, that loud noise you heard at your door was the Shadow Booster coming to eat your hovel," Moordryd said irritably. "I'm told you could provide me with a confidential translation. Are you going to let me in, or would you prefer to discuss business in your rather grimy doorway?"

"Come in. Sorry about the mess," the translator said ungraciously. He pointed to what appeared to once have been a sofa and now looked like an elephant's graveyard for used paper. "Sit down if you like."

Moordryd cautiously cleared a space for himself by shoving parchments onto the floor, revealing a pattern that might once have resembled the spoor of a strange paisley-eating creature. "I'll have black, no sugar," he said, more in a vain hope than anything else, not that he really believed even boiled water would be quite safe here.

The translator snorted. "We'll see. I charge fifty drakkals up front, further charges depending on obscurity, length and other circumstances."

"I'll give you twenty," Moordryd bargained. "This one isn't long."

"I don't change my prices for anyone." He went to his desk, ruffling throughs the papers on it and reaching for his inkwell.

"I also might just give you another job, especially if you keep it confidential."

"Good luck finding another independent translator. Unless you've scraped a personal acquaintance with those priests in the silly outfits?"

"I know one," Moordryd said, slightly surprised at the mention of the mysterious figure who seemed to hang around the Dragon Booster.

"Then see if he'll charge you less for the serenity of his karma." He dipped his pen into the inkwell, and quickly scribbled something in the corner of a page. Moordryd watched him as he started flicking through a book, pausing every so often to dash down some note. He seemed to have forgotten that another person was in the room, and didn't even seem to care that he was still standing up.

Moordryd sighed. Most of the translators he knew of were on his father's payroll as ancient-language specialists. He'd only heard of this one from chance gossip sitting next to Blayze and Hazaard in a bar, just before the diminutive elder had discovered him eavesdropping and unexpectedly knocked him out with her walking stick. "Fifty drakkals, then," he said reluctantly—hopefully Father wouldn't insist on investigating every last drakkal he spent this financial quarter—"and if you tell anyone about this I will make sure you suffer."

The translator turned around as quickly as though someone had just lit a thruster gear tied to his feet. "Fifty works for me. Let's get going."

--

"It's a very ancient dialect," he said, looking at a copy Moordryd had made of the words from the gravestone. "_Two_ ancient dialects, one I don't know very well and the second extremely early post-Empire. Where did you get this?"

"Somewhere in Old City. I think I've forgotten," Moordryd lied.

"Do you have a copy of how it was originally written? I'd need to see that before making a reliable translation." He looked up, eyeing him inscrutably through the dark glasses.

"Yes." Moordryd rummaged inside his bag for the tracing, and passed it over to him. "Is this better?"

He put it down in front of him, and reached up to turn a dial on the right of his glasses; a golden light skimmed across the page. "Better," he said eventually. He walked over to a shelf and pulled out an old, thick book, paging through it to where some similar letters were clustered on the page, and jotted down a few patterns before flipping through to another reference.

"Is it going to take much longer?" Moordryd asked impatiently. "It's not exactly _The War and the Peace_."

"And the price just went up to eighty drakkals," the translator said, still absorbed in his work. "Ten for the first obscure dialect, ten for the second, and ten for the attitude."

Moordryd scowled. He wasn't about to back out and try to find another translator now, but this one was possibly the most irritating one in Dragon City.

"Did it look like a grave to you?" the translator asked suddenly.

Moordryd forced himself to shrug. "A bit," he said. "I was just curious, really."

A faint smirk appeared on the translator's face, but he didn't bother to challenge the remark. "The closest approximation I can come to the earlier dialect is a name, _Utan Fist_—" he scribbled that on Moordryd's copy, but pronounced it 'Oohtan Fistei'. "And this epitaph. _Once king of this land. 'Until I am needed'._ The latter inscription is quite interesting. It's in a later dialect, and says _Now resting at last far above the shadow of the land he loved_, over some erased text—_spirit buried anew_, I think I can make out."

"Guess he came back when they needed him after all." Moordryd laughed. "Do you know where the shadow'd be supposed to be?"

"You say you found it in Old City…well, it could be anywhere down there now," the translator said. "I'm guessing he was reburied in another temple, customary for priests and the ruling class. The foundations of many old temples remain in the darkness, but their upper levels have rotted away by now. Where did you find it?"

"I—I told you I don't remember," Moordryd said hastily. "Sorry."

"A shame. History is not as respected a field as it should be in this city, and this find could factor in with a number of intriguing legends. The trope of the returning king is an ancient archetype." The translator laughed dryly.

"Do you believe he really did?" Moordryd asked.

The man actually looked thoughtful for an instant. "We know the ancient Empires were capable of a great deal," he said. "But I wouldn't believe it unless I saw solid evidence."

_Armeggaddon came back_, Moordryd thought. A sudden chill ran down his spine, though the room temperature remained exactly the same. "You've done well," he said abruptly, rising to take back his papers. "I'll deposit another thirty drakkals in your account. Don't let anyone know I came to visit you."

"You never told me who you were." The translator smiled. "Though I might remember your face from one of the papers if I bothered to look—Parn, perhaps? Penn? More recent events are not my speciality."

"My name is not _Penn_," Moordryd almost spat, and hastened towards the door. "Expect the remainder of the fee to be deposited in your account."

--

She let herself relax back on the recliner as he disappeared off to the meeting, his formal armour (bar the helmet, this time) appearing around him in a golden mist. He glittered in the sun as he left, a bright statue against the tranquil greenery of the garden. She stretched herself out like the animal of her namesake, letting herself enjoy the warmth despite the niggling guilt that she hadn't applied protection oil for several hours. She wouldn't burn just _once_, anyway.

Growing bored of this after a time, she stood to stroll through the gardens, walking in the vague direction of the stables. Perhaps she'd take Wyldfyr for a run later. The greenery was beautiful, a pristine natural scene of flowers and trees, artificially grown in the Academy far above the rest of Dragon City. She'd never imagined living somewhere like this back in Down City, and even these days she wasn't completely accustomed to it. She was not so accustomed to the concept of beauty like this as others were; it was easy to lose track of time, wandering and gazing at the bright draconium-shaded blooms.

The comm she wore on her wrist beeped suddenly, and she stared at it for a second or two before answering.

Mortis' masked face appeared on the display. "Fire Booster. There's been an attack in Mid-City on a dragon transport. I'm sending you and Artha to take care of it."

"I'll be right there." She concentrated, and the Fire Booster's armour metamorphosed around her, the cruel spikes stretching from her body and the protective shields surrounding it. She could almost feel Artha beside her already as the Dragon Booster, defender of the city; as she took off at a fast pace to Wyldfyr's stable she felt him running in step with her from Mortis' sanctum, and smiled.

They skidded down the white ramp in unison. Kitt manipulated her tricky combination of eighth-level red thruster and sixth-level purple stabiliser gear to keep Wyldfyr fast and on track, and beside her Artha relied on Aero Gear and Beau's fins to glide and skim easily downwards.

"Vorpal Street," he called to her. "The old racing quarter. You approach from the left, and I'll take the right!"

She only gave a slight nod, which was all she needed to do; setting off her blue turning gear, she hurtled down the left-hand path without looking at Artha. Power surged in both of them.

--

"Above the shadow of the land he loved," Armeggaddon mused. "A strange designation. My Temple of the Shadows was far from his capital here, and they would have destroyed that."

"You came from the Shadow Track," Moordryd ventured. He'd been thinking about the inscription since the translator had returned it to him, and that was the only association he had been able to come up with.

The glowing eyes suddenly flashed, so brightly that a firework of pain burst through Moordryd's head. "The Shadow Track. _Yessss_. How far is the sun from reaching its zenith?"

"Would you mind not looking at me like that?" Moordryd asked.

"_Obey me_." The bright pulse was stronger than ever as Armeggaddon hissed. Moordryd scrunched the palms of his hands into his eyes, attempting to block out the burning vision; it didn't work. The fiery glow penetrated into his brain like a molten dagger.

"About…about an hour!" he heard himself yell, trying to stop the pain. "Stop it!"

The pain abruptly ceased. "_Precisely_, if you please."

He quickly consulted his wrist-comm, calculating the astronomy statistics. "Fifty-three minutes."

"More precisely."

"Fifty-three minutes, and…and twenty-eight seconds. Twenty-seven."

"Set your alarm to it, and become the Shadow Booster once again. We will tempt the Dragon Booster and his little friends out of hiding."

--

They had already succeeded in breaking the transport open, and the chromatics were visible, growling as they pushed against each other. Wyldfyr roared, drawing the attention of the thieves to the bright figure of the Fire Booster; before they had time to do anything more than look, Kitt activated her Aero Gear and leaped down before them, as simultaneously Artha did the same from the other side.

A hail of blue stars launched by one of the thieves raced before her; she ducked, and let Wyldfyr create a mag-shield around them, drawing power from the Vivat's bone-mark.

Across from her, she felt Artha drawing in the energy for a mag-blast of his own, flying above Beau to carefully fire at the transport. A red-and-white ducked its head in at the last minute as it was sealed shut.

One of the would-be thieves flew at her, from the back of a black-and-green blend, a mag-staff with a blade on the end aimed at her; she shot out red spikes from her armour to attack, but he was nimble enough to avoid them. She ducked back as the blade came towards her, and sent up a mag-stream to separate him from his dragon. He leaped away from her, balancing on the edge of a building, and then a disrupter mine went off under them.

"Kitt!" she heard Artha yell, and felt him muster the power for an even greater blast. Temporarily without her own reserves, she turned Wyldfyr around to face the renegade, flying towards her with his blade aimed at her neck. She ducked as she sensed Artha moving into position, then Wyldfyr jumped to dodge, and then the thief's dragon caught him again and he hurtled towards her. The blunt end of his staff hit the side of her helmet as the world went gold.

--

_The battlefield was almost empty, now, blackened by mag-flame with cracks in the dead ground forming beneath them. There was white seared into it, and other colours etched twisted patterns across its surface: bones, human and dragon entwined._

_Utan stood next to her, what was left of his face inscrutable; Myrtin conferred with Tieran in a low voice beside their dragons, speaking softly and quickly before he shrugged his shoulders and turned away._

_She watched Myrtin gaze after him, forlorn in spite of the formidable look of her battle-armour and the strength in her compact body._

_Ill deeds had been done today. They would not be the last._

_She started to mount her own dragon, and felt Utan's gauntleted hand grasp her arm—or was it Utan? She fell, the shadows swarming about her..._

--

"What's the plan?" Moordryd asked. He and Decepshun were already racing up to Sun City as the Shadow Booster and Vysox, though he didn't understand Armeggaddon's reasoning or urgency.

"You tell me they are five. Red, green, blue, red-and-blue, and gold. Surely you understand that."

"And Pyrrah has sixty-something reds, a few whites, and a couple of blues. What's so special about _them_?"

"You understand nothing." An irritated flash, not so powerful as before.

"Your daughter could've figured it out with both eyes blinded and no ears, I get it. Are you going to tell me? Like, soon?"

"Moordryd!" Cain's face appeared on his screen. "I tracked down the transport you wanted with Blarre and Vizz. Do you seriously plan to steal from the Academy? Because we have the feeling this plan is going to hurt. Hurt _bad_."

"Tell them I've booked the Shadow Booster for today's entertainment. And send an anonymous tip-off to Dragon City Security. I'm going to call some wraiths."

"You want Security on us as well?" Cain almost screamed. "Have you lost it entirely? They could set the Dragon Booster on us again!"

"That's exactly what we need, Cain. Get out those mind pods and disruptor mines as I told you, and stay in position." He shut down the communication before his second-in-command could make any more comments, and returned his attention to Armeggaddon.

"The time," was all the presence inside the amulet said, so coldly and forcefully Moordryd didn't feel he had a choice but to answer.

"Thirty-one minutes. And eighteen seconds," Moordryd added.

"Excellent."

--

"Kitt!" she heard Artha cry, and returned to consciousness as a red fire grenade exploded next to her. The renegade who had attacked her was hanging suspended by his cloak on a nearby building, and most of the others were trapped together, mag-blasted and bound by penning gear to the transport they had attempted to rob. Their dragons lay unconscious, scattered around them in coloured heaps.

Bar one, a former wraith from its appearance, black as the shadows, standing on two legs waving wicked-looking claws in the air.

"Together!" Artha called to her, and they leaped simultaneously from Beau and Wyldfyr on golden mag-streams, each throwing a disruptor mine before returning to their dragons. The enemy dragon roared at the explosion, and swayed from side to side before finally collapsing.

"Not bad, hero boy," she said, tasting the words on her lips like long-ago memories. "Not bad."

"Same to you," he said, guiding Beau to join her. "Security will take it from here." He pointed to the blue-suited group riding towards them on golden dragons. "Shall we get back to the garden once we've reported to Mortis?"

"Why not?" she asked, though it was not a question.

--

He could see the small Dragon City Security patrol surrounding the Academy transport, protecting the high-level gear inside from any potential thefts. The four stripes on their uniforms showed them to be elite officers, among whom were some of the most effective fighters in Dragon City; the Academy demanded the best.

"Cain. Now," he commanded, speaking into his comm.

The entire Dragon Eye stock of orange mind pods and purple disruptor mines landed around the transport, and exploded.

Two of the guards managed to leap out of the explosion at what appeared to be superhuman speed. One of them raced towards the direction of the projectiles, and the other stayed to guard the transport—and his partners, who had been caught by the explosion and were starting to move with orange-maddened eyes towards him.

"The three of you. Run. Go see if you can corral up the Penn Blunders. I'll take care of these bozos," Moordryd launched long-range trapping gear from his wrist at the security guard pursuing his Crew-members; it hit the guard and his dragon, and though it didn't take him long to cut loose by then his people had managed to scatter. He glimpsed Vizz gliding away on Aero gear in the distance, and ducked away from sight behind the tower of the roof he stood on.

The guard rushed up still, towards where the Dragon Eyes had been; foolish of him, Moordryd thought, and then looked up in shock to see him and the security dragon leaping through the air towards him.

_Mag-claw_, Armeggaddon commanded inside him. _You barely need this one at all._

Decepshun offered him the energy for it, and he let the mag-energy burst from his hands. The guard's eyes widened in shock, and he jumped off the dragon, turning in a somersault through the air to avoid the blast. Moordryd fired a second blast, and that was that one that hit him, sending him slumped down on the roof with a long rip through his uniform.

_See the powers of the ancient mag techniques_, Armeggaddon whispered. _This is but a taste of what I can grant you._

The dragon was still standing, looking almost bewildered as it stared at its rider's unconscious body; Moordryd used his last piece of trapping gear on it. Its feet tangled in the threads, and then it fell over on its side, struggling futilely to free itself, rolling over towards its owner.

"I wouldn't want to put a really big damper on your sweet dreams," Moordryd muttered, and bent down to move the security guard out of the dragon's way. Dreams of world domination were one thing, but it would be stupid to let someone to die because of an accident.

"What are you doing?" Armeggaddon asked as he hefted the security guard's weight to one side.

"I only like killing people who know it's me," Moordryd said. "At the end of long and glorious battles. You know how it is."

"Fool!" Armeggaddon hissed, flaming brightly again as Moordryd struggled to hold the guard in place. "You must destroy defeated enemies however you can!"

"He's not—_not_," Moordryd said, struggling as the amulet burned inside him, "An enemy. Technically." He finally finished balancing the guard in a slightly safer position, and stood. "He's just a security guard."

"Very well," Armeggaddon said, still sounding annoyed. "Keep to your childish cowardice. I first killed at ten years of age."

A mental image of the Penn mini-brat with a meat cleaver in his hand came to Moordryd for an instant, and faded as Armeggaddon issued his next orders.

--

_Myrtin, she said, or wanted to say, seeing the blue blur form and reform in between bouts of blackness, rising from a nightmare as around her she smelled sterile burning and touched torn bandages._

"_Myrtin."_

"_Good evening. It's been three days. Your dragon is fine," the blue-robed figure said calmly, seated on the edge of her bed. Myrtin looked out of place in a healers' centre (as much as she did herself, she was more than willing to admit), battle-scarred and compactly muscular. "Andra, you should have told us."_

"_Told?" Her wits had been stolen away by the blackness, it seemed; her head throbbed as though packed with dragon-strength sedatives._

"_The poison claw that scraped your shoulder. It took the healers almost a full day to learn what had happened."_

"_Oh." She could remember that now, collapsing while mounting her dragon, feeling what she'd thought was Utan grasping her arm. "I thought it was merely a minor wound. I will recover." It was shameful, she thought, lying in bed like this; she was a soldier, not a slumbering fool. She moved to rise, but the weakness flooding through her veins prevented her._

"_We need you by our side," Myrtin said. "Tieran was in your place a year ago. Take some days to heal."_

"_Expect me on the training fields tomorrow," she said. "I fight, not sleep."_

_Myrtin laughed, a surprisingly bell-like sound, too rare in these times. "Until then, my friend," she said._

"_Until then," Andra echoed slowly, as her comrade left the room._

--

The remaining security guard was frantically dialling into the comm his wrist to bring further reinforcements; fortunately enough, the calculated charge left in the disrupter mines had left him temporarily bereft of communication. Though, fortunately enough for him, the Dragon Booster would soon arrive.

_Twelve minutes._

It was an upper city street—far too classy for the Penn brats, of course—just near the Academy roofs, the highest point in Dragon City. Just like Armeggaddon had ordered. He wondered, again, what the reasoning behind the plan was.

_Power, apprentice. Power. Hold!_

The blast hit both of them from behind, and Decepshun magged him around to see the Dragon Booster arriving with his friends.

_Dodge back. Leap to the high ground._

His Aero Gear was fully charged; he directed Decepshun into a sideways leap. It held as they were carried upwards, away from the Dragon Blunder and his little friends, and a climbing line pulled them onto their goal. Penn brat senior was missing, leaving the other three of them, egghead and mini-brat on the ground chatting to the security guard with Kitt Wann standing with the Booster.

_Is this going to change anything?_ he thought at the amulet.

_It is still sufficient. Now torment them into pursuit!_

Decepshun magged the transport's cargo, right under the noses of the three down there.

"Come and get it, Clumsy Chasing!"

That _is the best insult you have?_

_I'm improvising. Trust me, it'll work on them._

"We're coming—for you!" The Dragon Booster flew over the edge with his own Aero Gear; Moodryd released the climbing line to hit them. It tangled around them, and the Booster started to plummet as the dragon flapped its wings desperately.

"Take this!" Kitt Wann launched her own line, and then magged them her own gear, pulling the heroes of legend to safety with not inconsiderable effort.

_Time?_

_Two minutes._

Moordryd laughed. "Not even four of you would be enough to defeat me!" he yelled.

On the ground, the mini-brat looked up.

"Wanna bet?" he yelled, launching a mag-stream. "Don't hurt my friends!"

_It is working. I _am_surprised._

Moordryd returned the fire, gradually adding more energy to make the mini-brat's defeat appear imminent.

_Are you keeping track of the exact moment?_

_Yes! One minute and…and twenty-eight seconds._

He directed all the mag-energy he could into the power cells ready to be used; there was no way this wasn't going to drain him.

The security guard joined in, adding his blue energy to Lance's, and then egghead jumped in as well. It was surprisingly hard to keep standing against them, and Moordryd was grateful he'd prepared.

Decepshun gave a moan, and he stroked her shoulder reassuringly. "Not too much longer," he whispered.

And then the Dragon Booster joined in, and closely behind him Kitt Wann; he couldn't hold against all five of them for much longer, and he wished he'd delayed the main fight for just a bit longer.

_Yes. I feel this power. Time?_

_Thirty-eight seconds._ It sounded like an eternity. Moordryd could see them ticking down on his wrist, the bright green changes slowly hesitating, trickling downwards as the golden mag-energy forced his back towards Decepshun's bone-mark…

_I am with you, apprentice,_ he heard Armeggaddon whispering inside his head, and felt his mind being forced through unfamiliar pathways, going into Decepshun to steal energy and transform it in the Vysox bonemark to magnify it threefold…

Decepshun lurched under him, and he kept stroking her. "You can do this," he muttered.

_Seventeen seconds. Sixteen, fifteen, fourteen…_

It was hell. He—there was no he any more, just power forced through him and out and a red scream inside his head and the endless green numbers staring at him—was going to go mad, he couldn't take this any more…

_Nine, eight, seven…_

_Hold_. The flames took up the full inside of his head, blocking all else from him but their burn.

_Six. Five, four…_

The sun was above him, glaring down. So close. So close in Sun City. Too close.

_Three, two, one._

The interlocking magflames grew to a glowing ball (_golden, he would have disliked noticing if he had been thinking about it_) hovering just next to the bonemark.

_Zero._

A single beam of sunlight radiated down on it, and Moordryd flung his arm over his eyes at the brightness.

_Let me use this power,_ Armeggaddon's voice said, coldly satisfied. _To our destiny._

He reached out before him, and felt the warm light envelop his left hand. Decepshun roared, and then they were no longer on the Sun City building but somewhere else entirely.

--

The bricks fell around him.

She watched him leap and twist to avoid them, using the staff to divert them into a new pattern.

There was the start of a wall behind him, she noticed, and a bridge leading off it. He knocked more bricks away from himself, and used them to build a support for the bridge on the other side. A brick fell onto his bridge, and made it wobble for a second—and was the start of a new shape on the building, she saw, a second bridge ascending from the first which then started to interlock with a third, like the bars of an elaborate birdcage, a structure imaginative and delicate despite the roughness of the materials.

He leaped out from the building, and kept coaxing the bricks into position, until the elaborate construction was finally constructed around him and he stood in front of it, a building as high as his shoulders and a smaller wall surrounding him and what appeared to be a small-scale sculpture garden.

He looked up at her—well, not that he looked _up_ to her any longer; he was nearly as tall as his brother—and grinned.

"Nice, Lance," she said.

He tapped the staff on the ground, and the bricks in front of him parted to let him walk through them. "Thanks. I heard you and Artha stopped a theft today?"

"Yeah. It wasn't so hard." She shrugged. "Maybe you'll have to come with us next time."

"Sure. I still feel like I have a lot to learn, but I know I can help you guys." He twirled the staff in his hands in a complex gesture.

"Show-off." She laughed. He'd always wanted to prove himself, even as the child he'd been. "You ever miss the old days, Lance? Before all this?" she asked. He walked beside her as they went along the corridors of the Academy, passing a cleaner running a mag-powered broom across the floors.

He looked confused for a moment, then shrugged. "No. I mean, I was a kid then, and we've all come so far."

"Maybe things were simpler then," she said.

"You think? I think they're simpler now," he replied. "Everyone knows who we are now, and we've done most of what we wanted to do. And I hated it when you three said I was too little to help."

"You were, shrimp." She reached up to ruffle his hair. "Maybe you still are…" she said teasingly.

He squirmed away, laughing. "Stop it, Kitt. Or I'll ask Mortis to send me instead of you next time."

"If you really want to," Kitt said.

--

The Academy gear hadn't travelled with them, he noted. Shame.

Faded gold stone surrounded him, shaped into a rough pyramid and ornamented with faintly shimmering tracings of humans and dragons engaged in various activities. Though the air smelled stale, the place felt spacious enough, and quiet; ahead of him was an archway, leading up a set of stairs.

Decepshun was panting from the exertion, and he slipped from her back to pet her.

"GET BACK!", Armeggaddon screamed in his head, and he flung himself back onto the saddle just as a barbed spear rose from the floor.

_Traps. Oh, scales. It never was that easy, was it?_

"Okay. Now I get it, red, blue, green, black and gold make…gold. Big news. So how can we get through these without dying? You just drained all Decepshun's mag-energy."

"I recognize much of this technology. The control panel should be inside that archway, to the right. All you have to do is lend me your body."

"For how long?" Moordryd demanded.

"For as long as I need!" The fiery spike shot into his brain again. "For as long as it takes me to get through those traps, apprentice. Watch and learn."

Moordryd tried to relax, feeling Armeggaddon's presence inch to the forefront of his mind, and then his body was moving by itself, vaulting from Decepshun's saddle to a paving stone in the middle of the floor, leaping quickly to escape another spear, jumping over a tripline then flipping over the arrows that erupted from the wall…

He felt Armeggaddon draw power from deep inside him that he hadn't known he possessed, and watched himself mag-blast a hole through a heavy slab hurtling towards them. Then the presence inside him had him jump, propelled by a low-powered mag-blast that felt like it was ripping something out of him, and land neatly inside the archway.

_Control panel. Where would the damned priests have put a control panel?_

There was a rumbling behind them, and his body looked up to see a large stone boulder hurtling down the stairs.

_Scales!_, Moordryd thought in panic, and then felt Armeggaddon make another leap, landing on the lintel on the other side of the archway as the boulder rolled towards Decepshun…

…Who calmly turned, and flicked it to one side with her tail.

Moordryd's body wasn't even breathing hard, though he felt like it was. He'd have to learn those moves, he vowed.

_Now to discover the control panel._ Armeggaddon thumped a fist onto a stone set in the left wall, the golden tracings on it depicting an armoured man attacking a Muhorta-like creature with a spear, and then from the right wall a stone slid away with a multi-coloured pattern picked out on its side. Moordryd watched his fingers pick a rhythm across that, touching the gold, then blue, and then green and then red, and push it back into place.

"Approach," Moordryd's mouth commanded Decepshun, and she took a cautious step forward.

Nothing happened, and she took another, and then another, until she finally joined them.

Moordryd released a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, and then realised that his body was his own again and his knees felt like jelly.

"Nice one back there, 'Cepshun," he whispered to her. "Mind if I get back on again?"

She lowered her head, and he returned to the saddle.

"Are there going to be more traps, Armeggaddon?" he asked.

"No. It would not have been fitting, and secrecy and reverence would have been their other protections. But you should prepare your mind."

"I'll try. Let's go."

Decepshun slowly climbed the stone stairs, her footsteps visible in the layer of dust coating them, and Moordryd watched the golden pictures on the wall, a man kneeling before a group of robed men, an armoured man on a roaring dragon, a group of four with their hands meeting in the air to form a star, and fierce battle scenes, and on the other side a man on a throne with crowds gathered below him, with various other armoured figures co-starring in several tableaux. _Prepare your mind_, he reminded himself through his exhaustion, a part of his brain repeating the various mantras the Dragon Eyes learned to avoid their own control gear being turned back on them, and hoped it would be good enough for Armeggaddon.

And then before them was a wooden door, its handle lightly coated with golden dust. Moordryd reached out to turn it, and it collapsed into a pile of dust.

He was staring at a tall golden statue of the Dragon Booster, armed with a mag-staff and gazing heroically into the sky; he resisted the urge to spit at it. Behind it stood a large golden casket, as tall as he was and extravagantly designed and ornamented, carved with images of the armoured man riding the dragon of legend.

To the Dragon Booster's right stood a second statue, more stylised than his, a red woman looking as though she had been carved from living flame, behind her a red casket with a golden plaque in front of it.

Quite the colour scheme, Moordryd thought; the room's back wall had been painted blue. To the left was green, an elaborate portrait of a green-armoured man pressed into the left wall with jewels; below that stood a simple green urn resting on a dais.

"This is better than I had hoped," Armeggaddon said finally. "Do you know what this place is?"

"Where they reburied Utan Fist?" Whom Moordryd presumed wasn't the red woman, and he wasn't sure the Dragon Booster quite fit the apparent story, returned though he was in this modern day, which left the green man. "Him." He pointed.

"True, but inadequate," Armeggaddon returned. "This is the tomb of the Boosters. Beware of what it may hold."

"Boosters? I thought there was just one. Maybe two," Moordryd added, remembering something his father had once said about a powerful ally of the original Dragon Booster.

"There were four." Armeggaddon's eyes flared. "Five, to be correct. Four are buried here, unless I miss my guess—and one speaks now to you."

He'd suspected something close enough to that, but didn't bother to say so. "Drac," he said. There would almost have to be some powerful ancient artefacts here. He looked at the green portrait. "Do you think there's anything under that dais?" he asked.

"Unlikely," Armeggaddon shot. "Go to the casket of the Fire Booster."

Moordryd walked to stare up at her statue. It looked like something alien and deadly close up, a half-woman tormented by the need to destroy.

"I killed her personally," Armeggaddon said. Moordryd could feel him reaching out, testing the Booster's casket in some way he couldn't quite identify. "I had suspected her powers were lost where she fell," he said finally. "Good riddance, perhaps."

Nothing there. They walked to the Dragon Booster's vast coffin, and Armeggaddon again pronounced it empty, noting with what sounded almost like glee that he had always suspected the man would grow soft at the end. Behind his tomb stood a smaller and simpler blue casket, decorated with a simple portrait of a woman. It was roughly drawn, sketched with a few bold strokes that nevertheless suggested a face and personality, a scarred, strong face with a surprisingly warm smile.

"What was she?" Moordryd asked.

"The Warrior Booster. Soft like him, I assume. Now to the tomb we originally sought."

He felt Armeggaddon questing out again with strange mag-senses, and this time he could feel something, or perhaps notice for the first time its pull on him. He took a step forward, not entirely of his own volition, as the green jewels on the wall winked at him.

"_King_ Fist. The Spirit Booster, as they called him. Dead at last, it appears," Armeggaddon remarked.

Moordryd took another step forward, crossing a golden line drawn on the floor. It felt almost like walking into a dreamworld. The pull was there; perhaps this was the secret weapon Armeggaddon had been searching for that he could steal. Something to give him the advantage he needed against the Dragon Booster, at long last… He walked towards the urn, reaching out a hand for it.

"What are you doing? Wait!" Armeggaddon commanded him.

"We've found it," Moordryd said. "You found it, I mean. I'm going to claim it."

He knocked the urn from its dais; it smashed on the ground, and out of it appeared a cloud of dust, which scattered on the ground. In the middle of it were a bone mark and amulet, glowing a faint green.

"We will use them to our advantage," Armeggaddon gloated. "No doubt the original possessor is long past concern…"

Moordryd reached for the amulet, and felt it flood into his mind.

_WHO HAS DARED WAKE ME?_

The voice filled his head, blazing like lightning in a dark cavern.

--


	2. Part Two

**A/N:** I apologise for taking my time writing this. I'm going through exams at the moment, and it turned out a little longer than I expected.

--

_The small study was bathed in sunlight, the dappled patterns across its warm honey-brown walls and comfortable old chairs welcoming entrants to its hospitality._

"_I suppose you've heard already."_

_Her friend looked up at her, expression carefully blank._

"_He agreed." Myrtin sank into her customary seat, an old chair upholstered in fraying purple velvet. "I shouldn't sound sulky, I know. Still. I think I have a right to be concerned."_

"_It was our priests' and her Council's decision, you say," Andraste said. "Necessary for peace."_

"_He went along with it." She reached for the stack of parchment reports resting on her desk, and drew a frustrated line across the first of them. "There's…personal background."_

"_She's seventeen years old," Andraste observed, carefully watching her with ice-blue eyes._

"_Less than half his age, and ours," Myrtin said._

"_Then it is a good thing neither of _us_ are so foolish, is it not?" Andraste smiled coldly, sharp teeth glinting behind her red lips._

"_I wouldn't know," Myrtin said. "Andra, you know I regret—"_

"_Say no more." The sunlight reflected from her shaved head as she leaned closer, placing a pale blue-veined hand over Myrtin's, like snowfall to dark ground. "You knew I—"_

"No_," Myrtin said softly._

_She sank back into her chair, burying her face in her hands, and her friend went from her._

--

They flanked him on the right and on the left, two sidekicks to a hero, or three heroes, depending on which way you wanted to look at it. Four, if you counted—and you definitely did these days—the youth on the left as well, looking up eagerly at his father's speech.

_Probably the most enthusiastic of anyone here_, Kitt thought uncharitably, and then censured herself; Artha certainly looked to be paying attention (though he was also holding her hand), and most in the crowd were agape as well.

It was the Day of Peace, a holiday only occasionally celebrated until Mortis had chosen to return it to prominence; the day on which the original war had ended, apparently, and the day on which thanks were given for the newer victory.

The four of them were in the front row, of course, on the best seats in the Academy's main arena; they would not participate in the later exhibitions, though the VIDD-cams broadcasting the speech to the city at large would no doubt include footage of them in their formal garb. She and Artha had simply worn their armour, but Parm and Lance had both chosen to adopt elaborate robes, a bottle-green confection artificially plumped up with several layers of what had to be petticoats and a dazzling gold-and-blue design which looked like a cross between priest and Keeper costume. Cyrano's design had even been reversed for the occasion, temporary gold dye showing a glowing green star on his haunch (which would almost have made him blend in rather than stand out were it not for his size and power), and Beau was in his largest form, his wings spread as he paced with Tyrannis Pax behind Mortis.

"…And so we have chosen to value peace, to live, human and dragon, as though in the Golden Empire of old," Mortis said. The crowd cheered in the pause, but through that Kitt could still hear Sentrus' harsh breathing, sitting in her magchair at the end of the row with the breathing tubes in her nose. She remained head of the Academy in name, though her state of health meant that she did little but formally approve others' decisions; still, her role in racing could not be disputed, and she was more than entitled to her place in the row of those most important to the City.

"Thus, we value the sacrifices of those who have granted us peace," Mortis continued. "The Dragon Booster. _All_ the Boosters."

Kitt felt Artha squeeze her hand lightly, and saw his pleased smile.

"Those who worked to make this day possible. All this has become history," Mortis said. "Let us remember this, and let the celebrations begin."

There were more claps and cheers, and then explosions of brilliant fireworks, red and blue and green flying up to meet a golden fireball exploding into a thousand tiny sparks, cascading down upon the audience like specks of living flame. Kitt released Artha's hand to catch one; it melted on her skin like water, glitter cascading over her bare hand and to the sleeve of her armour. While the smoke was still in the air, actors for the first performance had already taken their places, and the show began. No fighting, whether friendly contest or skilful exhibition or deadly duel, was permitted for today; it was dedicated to shows of a more tranquil nature, given by actors and musicians rather than warriors.

Still, there seemed to be room for farcial combat, and Kitt found her interest waning slightly as two black-clad actors with ridiculously grotesque masks pretended to do battle with split cudgels. And then the plot, such as it was, began as an actor in a white wig started to give a comic speech about his latest evil plan, while the two buffoons pretended to listen and plotted to escape with his money. The parody of Word Paynn was obvious, but the exaggerated portrayal of a man who had done so much to them did not appeal to Kitt; she let herself lapse into an almost-stupor of boredom instead, as memories of what had brought this about danced inside her head…

--

"Where'd he go?" Artha stared around at the blank space where the Shadow Booster had been and the Academy gear left behind, the five of them just starting to recover from the mag-blasting.

"He just disappeared!" Lance said, gesticulating wildly. "Just like that! Like a burst of gold," he added. "How'd he _do_ that?"

"I don't know, but we're going to find out," Artha said. They hadn't…dissolved him, had they? He'd been fighting back pretty strongly; they hadn't meant to _really_ hurt him…

"You saved the gear for us, Dragon Booster," the security guard said, and released a string of White rappelling gear to take himself to the Academy supplies. "That's the important thing."

"No problem," Artha said. "C'mon, team. Let's go talk to Mortis."

"Is he dead?" Lance asked as they walked through the narrowing streets, wending down to the Dragon Temple with Artha changed back into street garb.

"No, Lance," Artha said quickly. "There's no way he's gone. We weren't trying to, anyway. I'm telling you, there was no way he could have—"

"Yeah, you're probably right, stableboy," Kitt said. "No need to repeat it. I've seen a few mag-blast racing casualties in my time. They don't make people up and disappear."

"But the dispensation of mystical energy combined with the standard algorithm of the colour frequency relation might have resulted in non-standard consequences…" Parm said.

"No," Kitt said, interrupting him. She nodded quickly towards Lance. "Don't let your imagination go too far, Professor."

"I really didn't mean to," Artha repeated. "It was just a…a fight…"

Kitt patted him on the shoulder. "It's okay. Look, I was at Eyla's Last Race when that bunch of Flares mobbed her. She sure didn't disappear into thin air…"

Artha gulped. "Yeah. I heard about that one. It was…only four of them behind it, wasn't it?"

"And I saw Stonne once hold off _six_ of the Army," Kitt continued brightly. "Sure, she ended up with third-degree burns over like nine-tenths of her body, but she's still Kwake's deputy _and_ she played in a couple of drag-ball competitions after she got out of the hospital."

"Ninety-four percent, to be more precise," Parm said, looking down at his wrist readout.

Lance peeked over at the display. "Drac. Do you know any more stories, Kitt?"

"I thought we were tempting-atales to-scales eep-kales iet-quales for-scales ance-Lales!" Parm hissed to Kitt, quickly shutting down the screen.

"Er, yeah," she said, giving Artha another reassuring pat. "So, Lance, let's just go ask your dad how the Shadow Booster disappeared, okay?"

"Yeah. He disappeared. It's a real nice trick, but we're going to find out how," Artha said.

--

"You say this was just now," Mortis said, pacing contemplatively after they had all told their version of the story.

"Yeah. There wasn't smoke or anything. He just faded out," Artha said. "He didn't even try taking the gear with him."

"In gold," Mortis said.

"Yup," Lance said. "It seemed to catch up with him then just grab him away like he didn't exist any more. Pretty cool."

"But the gold could've just been our mag-stream." Artha frowned. "I don't think I saw that."

"I am similarly unable to recall such a thing, but I cannot say definitively whether or not it was there," Parm said. "I was rather…distracted."

"And the sun was in my eyes," Kitt said. "It was really bright, just about noon."

"The sun at its zenith," Mortis muttered. "And you say there were six. You four, the Shadow Booster and a security guard. Was he blue-influenced?"

"Yeah," Artha said. "The five colours of power and balance, right?"

"Indeed. I had not thought—had not considered the possibility—Did the Shadow Booster do anything unusual? Possess anything unusual? Seem to carry out some sort of rite?" Mortis asked, pacing to his cupboard to draw out a sheet of parchment.

"He was dressed just like normal," said Kitt. "He acted like he _wanted_ us all to start firing at him, and we wanted to get the gear back so we did, but…"

"The gear may not have been the vital element of his scheme," Parm finished. "However, we may assume that his principal goal was not the teleportation—"

"Because nobody's into getting mag-blasted by five people just to pull off a disappearing act," Kitt said. "So did he…go somewhere?"

"The transportation must therefore have had a specific purpose," Parm continued. "What that purpose is, I do not think I possess adequate information to extrapolate a hypothesis—"

"Speak Draconian, Professor," Kitt said.

"I don't know where," he said.

Artha shrugged. "Yeah. How are we supposed to figure out _that_?"

"I may have a way." Mortis set the parchment firmly down on a stone table. "This ancient document makes a passing reference to light from shadows, quoting from a still more ancient tome. Astrological significance is mentioned, as is the original Dragon Booster."

"…Which means?" Artha asked. "I don't get it."

"The original Dragon Booster's balanced power marked the end of the war. Your balanced power today…changed something. Where were you at the time of this?"

"Sun City," Kitt said. "Near the Academy."

"High in the sunlight," Mortis said. "If the door has once been opened, then you _must_ retrace the steps." He bent down to the paper and scrawled a few calculations. "The balanced power. _Gold_."

"I can do gold," Artha said.

"You must balance it in a way you have never done so before, and do so before the opportunity ends," Mortis said. "I can offer you a little help…"

He held his hands in front of his chest, and a golden six-pointed star formed between them.

"What's that?" Artha asked.

"The bonemark belonging to Tyrannis Pax, purified into this form. It is not as powerful as Beau's, but you may use it as a focus to follow the Shadow Booster. Return to the place he was, and expand your mag-field to carry yourselves to him. Go quickly."

"But what about our dragons?" Kitt said. "They nearly drained themselves in the fight. They're resting in the stables."

"I'm afraid it's necessary," Mortis said. "I do not know to where the Shadow Booster opened a door—but I can guess that the consequences will be dire if he roams there alone."

Artha nodded. "Got it."

--

"Sunlight is involved," Parm said. He pointed to the Academy rooftop across from them. "If we jump to there, then according to my calculations we will be directly below the sun and therefore presumably in a more advantageous position."

"Got it, Professor." Kitt activated her thruster gear for a run-up, and then Wyldfyr leaped across.

"On second thoughts, it is a jump of a quite impressive distance…"

Lance followed Kitt, activating Aero gear midway through the leap to land on the edge for Fracshun to scramble away from it.

Parm swallowed, staring across the gap. "I may have to reconsider my hypothesis…"

"No, you won't." From behind him, Artha activated a fire grenade, launching it in Cyrano's direction. The explosion hit, and then Cyrano leaped off the rooftop, flying high above the gap, heading not for the next tower but the one further along.

"Uh, Professor? You might wanna slow down." Kitt's penning gear caught Cyrano's leg in mid-jump, redirecting them back to the group as the smoke from the grenade started to fade away.

"That was a…a dreadful trick!" Parm said.

"Sorry," Artha said. Beau's fins extended, and he almost lazily cleared the gap in a glide, neatly landing next to the others. "Let's do it. Before…"

"What do you think you're doing?" a new voice yelled.

"Academy security track us down," he finished. He held the bonemark in front of him; a slight golden glow emanated from it as he began to concentrate. "C'mon, guys. Let's do it."

"Dragon Booster! What are you doing here?" the security guard yelled, as the light from the bonemark began to expand, enveloping the eight humans and dragons.

"Balance the power," Artha muttered. "Balance the ancient power in sun's light to reverse the shadows…"

Lance closed his eyes, letting the gold energy flow through him and through Fracshun, and Kitt and finally Parm did the same as the golden bubble glowed around them.

A beam of sunlight seemed to hit it from above, and then they disappeared.

The security guard stared; she reached for her comm-link, which activated of its own accord.

"Ictinia reporting in. The Dragon Booster just—"

"Get down here. Now."

--

"Where are we?" Lance asked cheerfully.

"Wherever we are, looks like the Shadow Booster was here first," Artha said, gesturing to the scattered spears and arrows on the floor, the loose and pulled-out stones showing the traps that had been there. "Let's go." Beau stepped forward, but then Parm blocked them with Cyrano.

"Stop! We do not know whether the Shadow Booster was able to deactivate all the traps," Parm said. "Stay back, everyone!"

Artha paused. "Hey. I guess you're right." He looked across to the steps leading further into the structure. "It's not that far…right, guys?"

Parm slid from his dragon. "I may be unable to climb rooftops unassisted," he said, "but I am perfectly capable of comprehending the architectural significance of these armaments in order to comprehend the security arrangement…" He stepped cautiously forward, to where a spear lay on the ground. "So far, all appears to be well…"

"You're gonna test it for us, Professor?" Kitt jumped off Wyldfyr. "No way! You'll get hit!"

"I assure you I am capable of logically understanding the structures in place to forestall enemies." He raised his chin to stare at them. "It is likely not possible for our dragons to produce a mag-shield sufficient to protect all of us. Therefore, we must use intelligence to circumvent this obstacle—and the sooner the better, _before_ the Shadow Booster carries out his plans!"

Artha sighed. "Okay, Parm. But Beau and I'll be ready if you're in trouble." He bent over to stroke Beau's head as the dragon nodded in agreement.

Parm nodded, and continued to pick his way across, almost tripping over a broken paving stone as he cautiously navigated through the trail of debris left by the Shadow Booster. The room seemed unnaturally still, as though frozen in time, while the lone figure slowly picked his way through. Artha watched, poised ready to throw up a last-minute mag-shield around him, and Kitt put her hand to her mouth as she saw him stumble slightly over a barbed arrow.

Finally, he put his hand on the opposite wall, and looked back at them with a grin. "Will you be able to remember my precise—"

The floor shook.

"Run!" Artha said. "Lance, you first!"

Red sparks shuddered across the tracings in the floor, glowing like flame as it shook around them. Lance dashed forward following Parm's route, and then green started to flash through as Kitt and Artha glanced at each other.

"Go!" he yelled, placing a mag-lock on Cyrano's saddle. "I'll take him!"

Green smoke began to pour into the room, almost blinding them; Kitt released her rappel gear, binding Wyldfyr and Cyrano together and forming a chain with Beau.

"Follow me!" A light materialised in Artha's hand, the bonemark's glow shining out. Beau leaped forward, rushing through the smoke, staying on Parm's course as far as they could see it. Cyrano was pulled behind them as Kitt brought up the rear.

Blue started to spark along the floor, and the smoke lightened to a paler version, like sapphires crystallising in the air. Time seemed to slow down, and it felt like they were pushing through air made of treacle.

And finally gold flicked across the ground. The room seemed to shake. Kitt cried out and Cyrano roared, and then Artha was in the passageway where Parm was pounding a panel. He pulled at the mag-lock, and they both rushed through, panting.

"What are you playing at, _Professor_?" Kitt burst out. She clasped a hand to her right arm, and it looked for an instant that she wore a new sleeve, until Artha saw the blood dripping from it to stain Wyldfyr's scales. "That thing's…reset itself!" She pointed back to the entrance-room, which was now glowing faintly gold with two barbed arrows lying on the floor. Her rappel gear had been sheared off at Cyrano's leg, a thin loop still wrapped around it with the end badly frayed.

Parm looked up at her, and seemed to pale. "I was not responsible for that," he said. "Your arm…"

"Just a scrape; I've had worse," she said. "What were you trying to do?"

"I reached here and observed this panel lying open," he replied. "When I observed that the room's security had begun to reactivate, I assumed this to be a control device and attempted to correctly manipulate it. Evidently, I failed…"

"Let's get up those steps fast," Artha said. "Before it realises you were fooling around."

Parm jumped up quickly and scrambled onto Cyrano, and they ran up the steps as behind them the floor carvings started to glow with a blinding light.

Kitt looked back as Wyldfyr navigated the stairs with swaying gait, and saw the panel retract itself as a heavy block descended from the roof to block the exit entirely.

Artha stopped suddenly, and the rest of them pulled up behind him to see the glittering statue facing them.

--

"It's quiet. Too quiet," Kitt said, gazing up at the red statue as she drew a strip of cloth from Parm's packs around her wound. Wyldfyr stood next to her, the dragon's tail curled almost protectively around Kitt.

"That's the Fire Booster, isn't it?" Artha said, finally turning from the Dragon Booster statue. "I guess this was built for all of them—gold, red, green, blue…"

"What about black?" Lance asked. "The Shadow Booster must have gotten here first!" He stood near a loose stone in the wall behind the blue casket, where darkness showed behind.

"And gotten _away_," Parm said. He pointed to the dais near the green mural, empty now, but with an urn lying smashed on the ground. "I would assume he stole something from there!"

"What about the others?" Artha looked at the golden casket. "Did they put anything in here?" He ran an armoured hand over the join in its lid, mag-energy gathering around his gauntlet. "I'm the Dragon Booster too, I should be able to get it."

"Nothing else appears to be disturbed," Parm said.

"And I think it's a _tomb_, Artha." Kitt tied off the bandage and stood. "You probably don't want to…"

"Er."

The golden lid slid to the side, landing on the ground with a very forceful clash.

Artha jumped back, his hand flying to his mouth.

"If you want _that_, stable boy…" Kitt said, gesturing to it using her uninjured arm, "you're welcome to it."

It was…dead. Very definitely dead, a shrivelled brown face stretched over a skull, yellowed teeth grinning up at the interlopers, the remnants of gray-brown hair clinging to the scalp. And still clad in shining cloth-of-gold, with pure white at the collar and sleeves.

"Remarkably well preserved," Parm said, looking down at the corpse with what Artha felt was far too much like enthusiastic interest. "I hate to contemplate all the technology we have lost since the ancient days."

"I wanna see!" Lance raced back across the room before any of them could even think about stopping him.

Artha kept staring at it, his face almost frozen. "He's…dead," he said. "He _died_. Does that mean I'm…"

"He looks like he was pretty old," Kitt said. "Graying hair. Guess he made it until then at least."

"_Drac_," Lance breathed, staring down at it. He let out a long breath in appreciation.

"Lance, I am hardly certain if…"

A faint crackling noise came from the coffin; Artha jumped back, startled. And then it crumbled, the skin peeling back from a pale white skull and dissolving into dust, the skull itself flaking into brown and then black as it decayed into nothingness, until finally only a few strands of hair and blackened threads of gold remained.

"Yeah. Pretty old," Kitt repeated.

"Lance!" Artha turned on him. "You just…dissolved the Dragon Booster!"

"I didn't even _touch_ it!"

"Yes, you did!"

"Guys. Let's just get out of here," Kitt said.

Parm waved his hand in front of his face. "Does anyone else…smell something odd?"

"Yeah, the dead guy." Lance grimaced. "Eww!"

"Not quite. I would surmise…" Parm dialled something quickly into his comm, and then looked up. "Gas. That coffin released something nasty, perhaps a substance used in preserving him, and we…"

"C'mon, guys." Lance, already on Fracshun, levered the stone to the side with his balance gear. "Let's go!"

"Lance—" Artha began, and started coughing. Beau magged him to his back, and then he followed his brother, Parm and Kitt on their dragons bringing up the rear.

--

Armeggaddon had gone from him, as far as he could sense, and in him roared the long-dead Spirit Booster.

Inside the _Shadow Track_, no less.

It was not his own fears that swirled around him in a haze of violent bursts of light and noise, but they terrified him none the less.

_Mind-magic unknown to him, reaching slender as a needle into the depths of his self to unravel his body from the inside, his mind a seething hive of corruption inside his cursed body…_

_A desperate battle, mag-fire burning around him and roasting him within his armour as though he was nothing more than meat, a woman's scream, dragon roars and the sky itself splitting asunder…_

_Darkness growing inside him, dark spots forming in his eyes, utter exhaustion and above all _death_ calling him, what he feared and did not fear…_

_I WISHED TO REST!_

The Shadow Track broke around them, and Moordryd saw the bright sunlight, filtered through a dazzling green. His helmet did not cover his face any more, he noticed dimly, and his body felt heavier, impossible to move of his own volition.

Decepshun roared, and he felt himself put a hand firmly on her neck, pressing her down and letting power flow through the green mark melded into her forehead.

_Antox. My Antox._

"Auntokei. Myne Auntokei," he heard himself say, his mouth forced into unfamiliar shapes and sounds.

_This body is weak._

That was the weight. The Shadow Booster's garb had changed to a heavier costume, thick draconium armour covering his body.

His muscles stretched, pulling on the amulet glowing in the centre of his chest.

_YET I WILL CONQUER._

He felt the presence using his mind now, bludgeoning it to grant answers, as subtle as Phistus' hammer.

_Five years old, his leg caught in a trap and the practice dragon he'd ridden fled, the night getting cold and him pleading with his father to let him out, please don't punish him by leaving him all night, he'll ride better next time…_

_POWERFUL? THIS?_

_At the height of the citadel, his father in a grandiose mood, pointing out the factories he owned, the skyline he possessed, the power he dreamed of…_

_VERY WELL. I SHALL START THERE._

--

His _father_.

Blasted to the wall of his own citadel.

Much as he'd fantasised about something like this on various occasions, the upset to what he'd thought of as an order as natural as nightfall was…disturbing.

"What have you done to my _son_!" he heard his father yell, reaching out to quickly press a button.

Trapping gear launched towards him in hundreds of strikes, and he raised a hand. A mag-shield gathered around it, energy drawn from the bone-mark and converted to harsh green—no, not a mag-shield, for it was not blocking the attack but drawing it in, pulling the energy into itself.

He felt…energised again.

_GOOD. BUT NOT ENOUGH._

Word jumped to an alcove, and pressed another button; red fire grenades suddenly erupted under them, and then they were encased by another shield, glowing a strong green as the floor exploded under it.

"Holdek powcer vane sovros!" Moordryd heard himself yell.

Word looked even more shocked at that. "Suvres? Pitelluk?" he returned, in what almost sounded like the same language.

"Hande noene foullen dylectan! Aleik muertismos!" He launched a mag-blast at Word with both his hands, and saw it burn through the wall and scorch Word's robes as he leaped to the side.

_What am I saying?_ Moordryd begged the presence inside his head. He could feel the desire for power, but in the roiling thunderstorm of the Booster's mind could not understand the specific words.

_He's going to kill my father._

And if that happened, who else could he kill?

_HE REFUSES TO UNDERSTAND ME. MY POWER MUST NOT RECEIVE CHALLENGE._

_I understand him!_ Moordryd thought frantically. _Let me talk to him and he might want to work with—to _serve_—you!_

Which he probably would want to; he'd probably view the power as giving him a _better_ son. And sooner or later betray the Booster and seize power for himself, etcetera, etcetera; Moordryd quickly ripped his mind from that line of thought in case of it being overheard. _He respects power._

_I WILL DEFEAT HIM._

A glowing green double-ended axe appeared in his hands, and he raised it to shoot bright beams of force at Word Paynn.

_I—will—defeat—you_, Moordryd thought as carefully as he could, sending the shapes of the words as well as their meanings to the foreign presence.

"Myn destryk ela!"

_Not like that!_

"Tell me who you are!" Word yelled again. A high-powered disrupter mine flew towards them, and was crushed and exploded in Moordryd's right hand, barely painful at all to the mind controlling him. "Cynfide tous suvres!"

_Who are you, he's asking!_ Moordryd supplied. _That's all!_

_I AM THE TRUE KING. HE IS UNWORTHY._

Moordryd saw himself—not himself—raising a vast axe in the air, a huddling figure below him, bringing it down in the air in a shining sweep and then blood gouting from a neck, flowering gore made more horrible by what he felt, cold satisfaction and nothingness…

_A JUST TRIUMPH._

And then he understood.

_You want to be—you are—king, right? You don't _have_ to defeat my father to prove it!_

_HE WAS POWERFUL, YOU CLAIMED._

A green blast ripped apart the balcony Word stood upon, and Moordryd watched him fall.

_The Academy!_ Moordryd thought, trying to shape it into a dagger, penetrating through the boulder that was the ancient presence. _That's where the power is!_

_DIRECT ME THERE, SLAVE._

--

He was…losing himself, in a tide worse than Armeggaddon's brief possession, a mind like a bludgeoning whirlpool, like a crude hammer flying through a storm destroying all in its path. His body had been hurt, burned and bruised, but all he could feel was vague numbness as the presence forced him to continue onwards.

He wondered whether Decepshun was experiencing something similar, with the Antox bone mark atop the Vysox atop _her_.

The spires of the Academy rose above them; he'd only been here a couple of times with his father, viewing the elite races.

He felt Decepshun's motion under them as she nimbly ran up a steep ramp. It was _black_ which had the mind control gear, he told himself, and it wasn't as though the Vysox wasn't an ancient bone mark in her own right…

_DO NOT CHALLENGE ME!_ The Booster's anger came down on him like a falling Earth-class. _YOUR PITIFUL ATTEMPTS CANNOT MATCH OUR RETURN FROM THE SHADOWS._

They'd been weak, Moordryd thought. They'd gone into the tomb and spent almost all the energy they'd had, and there was no way they could win against something…back from the dead. Alive three times over.

_To the darkness once, an old man willing to return by priestly promises, a second after two decades' worth of battles, expecting rest at last and remaining, asleep yet still bound, forced back to the harsh light again…_

His roiling anger hit Moordryd hard, and by the time his mind had stopped reeling they were in the Academy itself, passing through a hall, the image of a bright-armoured red-lipped woman still burning in their minds.

Someone Moordryd knew? It was…familiar, at least somewhat, to both of them. Overlaid with a second image of a woman—the same? Her lips were as red—without armour, dressed in green and gold with bright auburn hair flying in the wind and a simple crown atop her brow.

_That_ wasn't his, Moordryd made sure to remember, trying not to drown in the flood of the other's mind.

He drove a fist thickened by a mag-field through a wall, and walked inside a hidden passageway.

_THE UNMAKING IS HERE._

The passage's walls were plain, and it was barely wide enough for both the Spirit Booster and the dragon Decepshun had mutated into. They pushed through, power seeming to expand the walls around them as they hastened to their goal.

_Which was?_ Moordryd wondered, but no answer seemed forthcoming.

If he destroyed the Academy, he reflected grimly, at least the damned stablebrat wouldn't get in.

The passage opened into a storeroom, at the top of one of the spires from the looks of the metallic walls, where he could see a number of glass cases. Security gear ran across them in the form of blue webbing, a trap for any burglar.

Almost any burglar. The axe appeared in his hands again, shining green; he brought it down over a case, and the glass flew up and around him while the webbing dissolved.

It was a simple wooden staff, Moordryd noted as he picked it up. Flakes of paint clung desperately to it, and he could feel the roughness of it scrape against his gauntlets. Yet Utan Fist felt…satisfied.

_LET IT BEGIN._

The storeroom floor collapsed under them, and they fell into the Academy's Arena, where screams of help and calls for backup started to echo around them.

--

He was underground. The air smelled of dirt. Above him was metal. Engravings brushed across his skin as he reached up desperately, clawing at his gold-sealed grave.

He screamed, and it lasted—

--

—_forever, the scream seemed to last, and then she finally fell back, her amulet torn off along with half her arm and blood pouring from a chest wound. He caught her, and saw Myrtin and the Fist rushing towards vengeance._

_They would destroy Armeggaddon once and for all._

_A mag-stream from Ceph took him to the healers' tents; he deposited her hurriedly in front of the nearest one. His comrades rushed towards the Shadow Booster in a double-pronged attack, as fierce as though all that was left for them was revenge. He joined them, fighting with Ceph through a path of dark dragons and riders, clearing the ground towards their leader. The axe and the sword hit the dark shield together, and for an instant in the brilliant light he could see nothing at all._

_And then the shadows rose._

_He heard Armeggaddon's laugh even across the battlefield, grating and harsh and gloating. He saw a brief blue flash through black as Myrtin battled, and faced his own foes, desperate as they all were for vengeance._

_It was as though the Shadow Booster had crystallised the wraiths by some strange purpose, turned them into living ice that was neither dragon nor human. They felt cold, and his arm seemed to slow in motion as he wielded his staff against them._

_He could not fight, he could not run, he was incompetent, the foolish boy who always lost the battle-contests, the useless Dragon Booster chosen out of a bet, peacemaker in the middle of a war…_

_It was fear. Pure, blind terror, and he felt Ceph bucking underneath him in that same emotion. He wanted to run, hide himself somewhere where he'd never need to be afraid ever again…_

_Lies, he told himself. All a lie. Fear would not stop them._

_The golden shield metamorphosed around him._

--

"Artha! Wake up!"

Parm's voice, yelling. How long had he been buried—asleep, he told himself? It was still dark…

"We are in the Shadow Track. We must get out of here!" A sharp sound, which took him an instant to realise was a slap across his face. "Hurry! Kitt is…"

He blinked, and the darkness seemed to clear slightly. Kitt was hunched in her saddle, leaning limply over Wyldfyr's head; Lance was beside her, looking up anxiously.

"What happened?" Artha rubbed his head; Beau growled beside him, nudging him with his head.

"Parm and Kitt caught up with me and then we found you," Lance said, "only there's something really wrong with her. Parm thinks that arrow was poisoned!"

She looked bad, from all he could make out in the dark; ghostly-pale, and only barely supported in the saddle.

"Just…let's get out," she said faintly.

"Have you got rappel gear, Lance?" Artha asked. There _had_ to be a quick way out of here, and they were going to find it.

"Yup. What do we do, Dragon Booster?" Lance managed a mock salute.

"Give it to Parm and Cyrano. They can help Wyldfyr along, and I'll take Kitt."

Her eyes were open as she lay in front of him, though she seemed to be staring at nothing, wide-eyed in what Artha hoped wasn't the Shadow Track's possession. The fear still preyed upon him, at the back of his mind rather than encompassing all of it as before he had been wakened; he repeated to himself that the Shadow Track only showed illusions, but that wasn't helping. The cut on her arm looked black, as though it was rotting from inside.

She was still breathing, rasping in pace with Beau's footsteps, and he really hoped that wasn't going to stop any time soon.

He looked back; Parm and Lance still followed closely, with Wyldfyr tethered to Cyrano and falling in step.

"Do not go left!" Parm called. "We have already followed that track! In fact, I believe we have already been _here_ several times!"

"Thanks for the warning." Artha scowled as they turned right instead. "We _solved_ the Shadow Track!" he yelled into the dark. "Why won't it let us out!"

"Because we used an alternative route this time?" Parm shrugged.

"Because of Destiny?" Lance suggested, and then slumped as they turned to stare at him. "Sorry. Just trying."

Beau growled, and then shifted into a larger form, the one resembling the Furox.

"What's up, boy?" Artha asked.

_Gold melting shadows. Harsh shrieks as they split before him. A dead dragon's body, red with scales and blood, vengeance the only thought in both their heads…_

"Are you trying to tell me something?"

He'd…dreamed of the Shadow Track itself. Shadows, and so much red. The dragon of legend.

_The_ dragon of legend. The first.

Beau moved independently, heading forward and then turning right.

"We've been down here as well!" Parm called. "Artha, what do you think you're doing!"

"Following Beau. Maybe this place doesn't follow normal rules of which way's out and which way's another circle, or maybe it does. But if I don't trust him, then there's no way we'll make it out."

He heard Parm sigh heavily, but they followed him nonetheless. Kitt's breathing seemed more shallow, coming in shorter gasps; she was sweating, and continuing to stare at something beyond them.

"Find it, boy," he whispered. "Soon."

And at last, Beau paused, and he slipped down to search.

"Artha? What're you doing?" Lance called. "We need to keep moving!"

The ground in front of him was a solid black, the jagged floor of the Shadow Track rising up to hide the deeper shadows in between them.

"Wait. Beau thinks he's found something. Something that was left here. I don't know how to explain it, but I…"

"Artha. Hurry," Parm said. "It's Kitt's _life_."

"It's here, I know it," he said. "I think she was…I think she…" He bent down, feeling between the Track's dark crevices. "I wanted revenge."

"Revenge is like thruster gear set to a circle," Lance said, repeating a proverb. "It just gets you back where you started."

"And, regarding Kitt, unless you plan to punish yourself for it, which, I might add, you should not on the basis that it was an accident, revenge is not appropriate," Parm said.

"Yeah. I guess this was my fault," Artha said. The guilt was starting to sink in, but he focused on the search. "Just hold on, okay? Five minutes."

Another empty crack. Darkness around him, within the rising walls. There wasn't anything here. He looked up at Beau, waiting for some other signal. The dragon of legend was supposed to…help, scale it. There was barely a clue to be gained from staring at Beau, but he seemed to be encouraging his rider to continue rather than reaching out a mag-lift. He didn't look at Kitt lying slumped on the saddle.

"One minute, Artha," Parm said. "We really cannot afford this."

"I'm listening." He groped in a crevice in the wall, searching for…

For something he didn't have a clue about on the basis of a Shadow Track dream.

Beau stepped forward, and sent out a mag-beam across the ground. It glowed brightly, driving some shadows deeper and highlighting the rock tips. It was brief; the mag-energy was probably too much expenditure after everything else that had happened, but in a brief moment where the glow wasn't gold, Artha thought he had his answer.

He reached down between those rocks, his gauntlet scraping along the black draconium as he tried the last-minute search. Not in those; in the next one, perhaps?

"Ten seconds until the five minutes ends," Parm said. "Artha, please hurry and get back…"

"I am hurrying." He reached down once more, and at last his hand struck something. "Beau! It's here!"

It

--

_called to him, demanding revenge, for his comrade was dead or dying and the foe still stood, and he would carry it out more than willingly—_

--

—but he would not, not here, and with this he would return them all from this prison.

He pointed, and a second object flew into his hands, shaped like an unformed flame, crusted with black residue. He—

--

_had had his revenge for this, raising the golden shield and forcing his comrades loose of it with a mag-call, three of the five greatest warriors of their age battling the shadows together. Finally facing the ultimate enemy, the Shadow Booster, surrounded with his creatures shaped from their own fears, fighting almost bravely enough to hold off all three of them at once—_

--

—he could have owned this power as well as his own, absorbing it as Beau had absorbed the Furox. Images flickered through his head as he remembered.

And then he looked down at Kitt, and remembered that too.

"Give it to me," she whispered, paper-white, and he handed her the Fire Booster's amulet. "The fire—"

--

"_Unleash the flame," she said at the last, and the power was still with her, flowing outwards in one single burst—_

--

"Unleash the flame," he said, not knowing how he knew it, and she looked at him through green—not blue, or a feverish, desperate red—eyes, and repeated the words.

She appeared surrounded by fire, rising from Beau, and he could feel the power gather around her, healing the injury done to her and remaking her into the warrior of legend.

Wyldfyr raised her head and roared, and the bonemark flew from his hands to affix itself to her head.

--

_The Vivat, he remembered, no Great Dragon and yet a powerful force nonetheless, raised by the Red Empire to fight, a near-perfect partner for her mistress._

_Lying dead below him as he reshaped the shadows to imprison their originator. He rewove the shadows, stitching them with elusive golden thread that faded as soon as it had done its task, as Myrtin and the Spirit Booster held a mag-freeze to keep their prisoner under control._

_The shadow-circle shrunk inwards, both a grave and a gaol; it was as black as the mind's edge between fear and wrath, and carved by the fire of revenge._

_Armeggaddon started screaming then, almost as loudly as Andraste had, and Tieran _twisted_, dragging his power from him and abandoning his soul to the mercy of the darkness._

_The shadows faded, finally, and then there was nothing._

_He stepped from Ceph, and picked up the amulet and bonemark left behind; the power still seethed within them._

_And then he looked, and saw nothing but death._

_Pale hair in the distance, a retreat for those who still could. Those who had _won_ the battle. Those who had not faced Draconis-knew-how-many deaths, humans and dragons lying on the ground with hearts stopped through the pure terror of the attack._

_The bitch-daughter would press her advantage. One leader destroyed in return for countless soldiers and dragons, and the Fire Booster—_

—who had returned, red-armoured and mounted upon the Vivat once again.

"Uh, guys?" Kitt said. "I really think we should, like, get out of the Shadow Track."

She raised her hands; fire appeared between them, too bright to look at directly.

"Too long in here," she said. She aimed at the nearest wall, and the shadows burned.

Artha saw Parm with his hands over his head, hiding his eyes from the brightness, and Lance with his face screwed up. He could sense what Kitt was doing, and added his own powers to it.

They pierced the walls of the Shadow Track together, and came from nothingness into light.

--

…_fading at the last, no final words for Myrtin or Utan, carried to the nexus by the priestess Silrillion in full knowledge of her duty, the network pale spines in dead earth…_

Kitt was _alive_, he told himself, and then Mortis appeared on his screen with a beep. He focused, trying to forget about the memories swarming on him.

"Thank the Magna Draconis you're back. There's an attack on the Academy, Dragon Booster. Go there _at once_."

--

He called it the Staff of the Keepers; Moordryd had gleaned that much from the thoughts in that boulder of a mind. And he was using it to dismantle the Academy tower by tower.

Humans and dragons rushed at them; he knew some of the names, Megan Dedrovic the Crew-leader before him on her Percepshun, the speed demon Olyeave Grene and Apollon, Khalio Talis riding Burstbryght and exploding his famous sunstrike-gear in their face.

None of them mattered, whether famous racer or security guard or known Academy power. The Spirit Booster cast them all aside, whether to cling frantically to something as they fell from the towers or to perish in the city's depths Moordryd didn't want to know.

And then, a blast of gold hit them from behind and they turned to face the Dragon Booster.

Beside him, there was…

A red-armoured woman on a large Magma-class, was all Moordryd thought, but the Spirit Booster paused at the sight. They blasted him as one, flame and gold ripping through him simultaneously, the pain Moordryd felt voiced in the Spirit Booster's roar. The staff fell from his hands, and he leaped to bring the fight to those who had dared attack.

_WHY DO THEY NOT UNDERSTAND?_

The Antox—Moordryd couldn't think of the dragon as Decepshun at this moment—magged him up, and the green axe met the Dragon Booster's staff.

_Because they have a thing against people destroying their city?_

_SILENCE, FOOL! IT IS CLEAR THAT THESE DAYS HAVE DEGENERATED TO SLAVERY AND CORRUPTION. IT IS TO ME THAT POWER MUST RETURN ONCE AGAIN._

"That's Moordryd Paynn!" he heard the mini-brat cry. "The Shadow Booster must've made him get possessed!"

"Unless they're…" Parmon Sean began.

"No way," the red-armoured woman—the Fire Booster, he recognized, wondering where _she_'d managed to spring from—said. "The Shadow Booster wouldn't do that to himself."

Moordryd wished she'd been right as she hit him with another flame-blast.

--

"Lance, get down!" Artha yelled as the strange Booster launched another attack, green projectiles searing through the air.

He—the original Dragon Booster—must have known the guy once, even worked with him.

_King_, some fragment of memory told him, _king in the very earliest days of gold, returned by the priests to serve the land once again._

Becoming king once again. Returned from death after three thousand years—which was probably, uh, kind of inconvenient—and conquering.

_Madness_, Artha realised as he tried to block the mag-axe with his staff and staring into the wild green eyes with barely a trace of anything human within them. _Unwillingly brought back._

"Together!" Kitt called to him, and they tried another dual attack, her fire and his mag-strength.

Lance was below them, under a shattered floor while they fought on higher ground; Artha was relieved that at least his brother was safe as the axe whistled in front of his face.

And then the floor beneath _them_ collapsed.

"Sorry!" he heard Lance yell as Beau tried to maintain his footing. "I can't control—"

"Lance, stop it!" Parm called.

"No! I can handle it, I swear!" Lance held a staff between his hands, Artha vaguely noted as he prepared to return to the fight.

Kitt and Wyldfyr were also staggering to regain their balance, though the green Booster was up already.

He saw the green light flash out, ripping his blocking staff from him, and then the Booster was coming towards him, too quickly for him to dodge as the axe-blade flew towards his neck—

--

—and he fell like a stone as the floor below the Antox rose up and threw them from the tower.

It was surprising how calm one could feel, falling through what looked like a never-ending tunnel from Sun City to Old.

_I'm going to die_, Moordryd thought.

--

**A/N:** "I thought we were tempting-atales to-scales eep-kales iet-quales for-scales ance-Lales!"--this is, of course, Parm using Draconian Latin to say "I thought we were attempting to keep quiet for Lance."

Feedback very much appreciated!


	3. Part Three

**A/N:** Yeah, it's been ages and I suck. Thanks very much to those who have left feedback.

--

It was his nightmare, for Kitt.

_It started on the battlefield, as he reflected upon what they had lost. He heard Myrtin's voice inside his head, calling him by name. It surprised him; for all the work they had put into refining this method of communication, the synchrony they had achieved as a result had meant they were far more comfortable without words. "She…wants to speak with you. Hurry."_

_He dreaded what he would see, and he was correct; Andraste was deathly pale, blood pooling inside her mouth and staining her chin. Another killing he had no wish to witness._

"_The priests spoke of the network," she managed. She reached out for his sleeve with her left hand, able only to scrape it. "My…most of my powers are lost now."_

_He had taken from Armeggaddon, and yet had not regained what was hers. Stupid, he told himself, fool demanding revenge at all costs._

"_Andra, you should…rest," Myrtin said, kneeling beside the rough bed, her face turning the blotchy shade that meant she was trying to keep back tears. He put a hand on her shoulder, for whatever comfort that offered._

"_No," she said. "I still have enough of it in me. I need you to take me there, Tieran. Let it begin."_

"_Let _what_ begin?" Utan said. "She has done enough for your cause, Dragon Booster."_

"_The return of the gold," said Silrillion, entering the tent; her robes were flawlessly arranged, dark red and immaculate. The perfect Dragon Priestess, her tone steady and commanding even now. "For all she is—was—my daughter, she knows her duty nonetheless."_

_It was rare the old woman expressed her kinship to the Fire Booster; Tieran supposed it was yet another indication of the desperate situation._

"_Thank you," Andraste said. "Take me there."_

_She gave no final words to Myrtin or Utan as he mag-lifted her as gently as he could from there, and said nothing as they travelled underground to the nearest nexus._

_The ground was dead around them, pale gold disappearing into brown—not black—earth, like the spines of long-dead giants. They laid her on a simple blanket next to one of the largest, and watched her reach out to it with the still-bleeding stump of her hand to it. He moved to help her, but Silrillion placed a firm hand on his arm._

"_She will start the balancing," the priestess said, and with him stepped back to watch._

"_Unleash the flame," Andraste said slowly, and though she lacked her amulet the power still seemed to encompass her. Red-eyed, she raised the stump to the gold in the walls, and then it was over._

_He blinked; red light had seemed to devour him for that instant, passing from empty shell to faded network. And yet the spines of the network seemed as faded as before, and what had once been Andraste lay stiff. No peaceful expression had come to her at the last; her eyes were still open, and she still looked as determined as in the middle of a battle._

_He turned away, sickened._

"_It is done." Silrillion touched a hand to the golden draconium, and he jumped back as red flowed through it suddenly. _

"_Then it is…true," he said._

"_The sacrifice was required," she told him. "It ought to have been saved to forge a peace rather than to continue a war. But needs must."_

"_Then can we not all put our powers to it, now, and end the need for battle?" He wheeled on the dry earth, punching a fist into dirt which yielded for him._

"_You would have drained yourselves for nothing; the war would only continue," she said. "You must defeat the Shadow Booster, and have him agree to place his powers to this."_

_He shook his head. "Impossible. You have betrayed her, Silrillion." He turned away and began to leave, unwilling to face her. How could he stand and tell Myrtin _this_ meaninglessness?_

"_I cared for her, in my way," she said, though he did not turn back. "I sent her to the best schools I could, and she repaid me by running away to join the Red Army. She swore that she would only return once the prophecies were fulfilled, if ever. I was right in the end, of course."_

_Her voice continued to carry in the air as he walked to where the moon's light reached the underground caverns, moving back towards the fresh air._

"_She was trained to keep her oaths. I do not regret that. We did not trouble to forgive each other, and our relationship was most serviceable. We both kept our oaths…"_

_He left her still talking and rode silently on Ceph back to the camp, exhausted._

And then he remembered whom he cared for, and that Kitt was alive.

--

She watched the gear forming under his hands, green-blue and supple, polished in golden sheen that grew brighter every second.

It reminded her of the days he'd spent figuring out how his amulet worked, and Kitt walked to him to get a closer look. It was fascinating to watch, really, his long hands moving over it with a grace he did not normally display.

Parmon looked up and saw her standing there; his hands slipped slightly, and he hurriedly bent down towards it to fix the error. She waited patiently for him to finish.

"I would appreciate it if you refrained from walking up so suddenly," he said, a trifle tetchily.

"Never mind that," she said, crossing the distance between them in swift strides. "I wanted to talk to you. About…the way things have changed."

He looked confused for a moment, and then shook his head. "We brought back the gold dragons, like we always wanted," he said.

"And saved the city?" she asked.

"Yes, and saved the city. Don't you remember?"

"I remember fighting," she said. She touched his arm. "I remember you. Saying something. About fiery hair."

He looked still more puzzled. "Lance? Mortis?"

"Not them." She took a step away from him. "I guess I just wanted to know if you were happy. If you like gold more than green."

"I'm Artha's friend," he said.

"And I care for him," she returned swiftly. "I dream of gold. So much of it. Like an endless circle."

--

He was bloody _observing_.

_THE CITY HAS GROWN._

Mid City, plummeting past the familiar racing tracks, inactive for the time being.

_NO DOUBT YOUR DRAGON SLAVERY WAS OF ASSISTANCE. WAS THIS WHAT I FOUGHT FOR, SERF?_

Work Town. Factories punching out their neverending labour. He remembered the translator's shack here, briefly, and cursed the day he'd encountered the grave.

_THE MACHINES MAY BE USEFUL, IF I MUST WAGE WAR AS KING._

Precinct, passed all too quickly, the blue flashing by them in an instant. Decepshun's roar, continuing high-pitched in the air.

_IT HAS CERTAINLY GROWN SINCE I WAS LAST PRESENT._

Shadow City, darkness whistling around them. He thought he saw pale faces looking up in shock as they passed through.

_PEACE, MY ANTOX._

Down City, houses pressed closely together and his own Crew headquarters in the distance. Decepshun's voice ceasing, replaced by the air crying around them.

_There's only Old City after this! We're going to _die

And then there were the ancient temple-tops of Old City, and a dark cavern below them.

_I SAID SILENCE, SLAVE._

The darkness swallowed them.

--

Lance stared out of the window, paper-white.

"You saved my life," Artha said to him. "You saved me, okay?"

"But I killed Moordryd!"

"It wasn't your fault," he said. "Listen to me. You did exactly what you needed to. It's okay. It's okay."

He wrapped his arms around his brother, somewhat awkwardly with the armour in his way.

"He—" Lance lunged for the window as though about to throw himself from it in a desperate attempt at rescue, but his brother kept hold of him.

"You have to stop this," Artha said. "There's nothing you can do. Stay still. It's okay."

"Poor boy." Sentrus, rising from the wreckage like a pale ghost. "The younger Paynn. I had no idea he was so desperate for an Academy position."

"Yeah, well," Artha said. "He was always cheating. So I've heard," he added hastily.

"It _wasn't_ him!" Lance said loudly. "The Shadow Booster made him get possessed!"

"He was the Shadow Booster's friend, Lance," Artha said. "You know we've seen them work together before."

"That doesn't matter!"

Kitt shook her head at Artha. "Never mind, kid," she said. "Let's get you home."

Sentrus stared at her, grey eyes widening. "Fire Booster," she said finally, and a susurrating sigh went through the Academy racers who stood around them, like the release of breath held for centuries.

She knelt. The remainder of the Academy followed her, in reverence to the Boosters, as Artha and Kitt stared at each other in shock.

And then Mortis broke the silence. "Have you completed your mission?" he asked, his face suddenly on the screen.

"Yeah," Artha said. "He kind of went out the window…"

"I felt the power," Mortis said. "Follow him down. I fear what may have happened."

"He's _dead_!" Lance cried.

Mortis shook his head. "The ancient warrior I sensed would not be killed so easily. Follow him, Dragon Booster. For what may be all our sakes."

Artha looked down at Lance, and then at Parm and Kitt. "Let's go."

--

His elbows alternately scraped against stone. He didn't want to think of how Decepshun would be wounded by this. The dark felt oppressive by itself, suffocating him, and then green light burst out beneath Decepshun's feet and loose earth rattled around them.

The Spirit Booster was opening up tunnels, he realised. Tunnels that slowed them in the fall.

Tunnels which led to…what?

_Another ancient tool of destruction, obviously. Scales—no, schit. Schit._ He just hoped this one wouldn't cause him as much trauma.

--

Mortis had set up a rough map for them on their screens, and they raced down ramps towards the Old City.

"My temple's power sensors remain mostly intact," Mortis said. "I can chart you a path to a certain point in Old City—but I fear he will have gone much further."

"He's not dead, then," Lance said.

Parm shook his head. "No. I suppose we will remove the ancient influence from Moordryd, once we catch up."

"Whether or not he wants us to," Artha said, and ignited his thruster gear. "The sooner we get there, the better."

--

Nothing but gold, at first; and then Moordryd realised that in fact there was less of it than he had thought, a thin coating of golden draconium across the vast bowl below them.

_POWER. AT LAST._

It had been full once, perhaps; a sudden flash of memory captured him, a sea full of draconium melded together into gold.

And then the Spirit Booster's thoughts battered him again.

_GONE! HOW HAVE THESE DAYS DEGRADED._

_You could…make some more, right?_ Moordryd attempted to console him, fearing the pain of his foreign anguish like a heavy tide battering the ocean. _Or just use what's here? There's a lot there, for Dragon City anyway!_ He sounded perky and cheerful, and hated it; but the Booster seemed to listen to him.

_VERY WELL. I WILL TAKE WHAT POWER THERE IS._

He dismounted and reached down a hand to the vast golden hollow, and Moordryd's mind exploded for the second time that day.

--

The tunnel led straight down through Old City.

"I cannot track it further," Mortis said. "Go down there."

Artha looked down dubiously; he couldn't see the end of it. "Uh, how? It's too narrow for Cyrano and Beau."

"I presume we lack alternatives." Parm slid off Cyrano determinedly, and patted him on the nose. "Will you remain here until we reappear? Good dragon, have a treat while you wait…"

Kitt did the same, unclipping the remnants of her rappel gear from Wyldfyr's saddle. "Pass me yours, boys. We're gonna have a long climb."

The bonemark Artha carried was their only light as they clambered down the tunnel, holding on to rappel gear and penning gear bound together. The walls became more smooth as they got further down, carved flat by…something.

"Lance, are you all right?" Artha asked. The gaps between handholds were large, almost taller than he was now.

"Yes. I want to make sure Moordryd's okay after I hurt him." Lance took a deep breath, and then let himself further down in a slide that took some time to career into a stop.

"Shhh," Kitt commanded suddenly, and they all quieted.

"What?" Artha asked after a while.

"Wind from below," she said. "We're nearly there."

"An auspicious prognosis," Parm commented. "By my calculations, we're nearly out of line."

Artha gulped. It was their only way back to the surface, and he did not wish to fall through darkness for the Magna Draconis knew how long.

"Do you have enough for a mag-lift?" Kitt asked him, slightly peremptorily.

"I think so. But—"

"When I scream, stableboy. When I scream."

She threw herself from the ledge before he could say anything more, and Artha watched her slide down into the darkness. He prepared the mag-lift; _too late_, he tried not to tell himself, _too late_, but with another part of his mind he could sense the falling fire, the amulet that he had touched first.

"Hurry!" Her voice echoed up to them. "Come down here!"

--

Madness, pure black blazing madness, the strained-howling stone of Utan Fist and the faint shadow of Armeggaddon and the roiling torrent of the _presence_.

Inky black churning like bloodstains from a heart ripped from a living body, white-hot black fury like burning chains and flesh, screaming black nightmare-torments begging the living to join the dead.

Tears ran down his cheeks, and hacking sobs burst from his chest as though he was being ripped limb from limb, torn apart by rack and pincer and screaming in pain for a relentless eternity. Blood ran down his wrists as the nails of his gauntlets cut into his palms, and his knuckles were as white as bone.

_not you get out get out get out you _liked_ him you were guilty—_

_WHAT MADNESS IS THIS?_

_Cease and allow me the boy—_

_no get out get out get out—_

A high scream shattered through his head.

_STOP IT I HAVE THE POWER HERE—_

_three thousand years in pain three thousand years in hate three thousand years screaming captive_

_I SAID STOP IT NOW!_

The storm of madness surrounded the stone, beating on it in roiling fury, and he felt its frenetic whirlpool rise, a tempest filling the earth.

Iron hands unravelled his; the broken skin stretched as the stigmata unfolded.

"Hurry! Come down here!"

It was obvious, foreordained, inevitable. The madness was like a thousand silver needles piercing flesh, whirling fluidly in impossible patterns which formed and reformed in every passing moment.

_NO—_

_Stop—_

_alone leave me alone get out GET OUT_

It shattered the world as it flew, spun; the stone crumbled rapidly beneath it, and then it screamed again as the shadow was crushed completely. The green amulet flew from his chest, and the mind reached out to feel Decepshun.

_know you keep you come to me_

She reared up and roared around him as the green bone mark fell from her, the Vysox' mark glowing on her forehead.

"Moordryd! Calm down!"

A woman's voice, and as he opened his eyes he saw red armour.

_not you leave me alone_

He ripped his hands from her, throwing the woman to the ground as she lost her balance.

"Hey! Leave her alone!"

He looked up, and saw the familiar golden armour.

_no no no no no stop it stop it stop it_

A mag-blast burst from him, sending the Dragon Booster into the cave's wall. Behind him, the woman had regained her footing; she struck him as flames appeared in her hand, and by then his other opponent had recovered.

The mag-trap materialised around him, gold tight around his arms; he screamed like a wounded animal until it tore his throat.

_stop pain fear hate no no no no no NO_

And then it stopped, like the snap of a clubber band collapsing, and he reeled forward as his mouth went dry and the presence inside his mind suddenly became quiescent.

He was crying as though his world had ended, and he was a captive of the Dragon Booster. The amulet under his sleeve felt cold, and he knew that Armeggaddon had gone completely.

He had been left humiliated, and with nothing. He tried to stop the tears, at least, as he looked up in shame.

"Are you okay now?" Penn junior spoke up.

_Of course I'm not bloody okay. They took me and used me and hurt me. I don't even think I'd be standing without the rope holding me like a dracboar._

"I'm sorry," he continued. "I didn't mean to try to kill you."

"What _did_ you mean?" Moordryd snapped hoarsely, trying to stop the tears from entering his voice.

"To save the Academy. From _you_," the Dragon Booster said sternly, taking a step towards him. "You listened to the Shadow Booster. That makes you responsible in my screens."

"I'm sorry!" Moordryd yelled as best he could, wanting this to be over. "I made a mistake. Cut the lecture and let me go."

The red-armoured woman—he might have known her name, the Booster like the red statue, but he could barely think let alone try to remember others' histories—put her hand on her waist. "Real sincere, Paynn."

"How do you know my name anyway?" he spat at her. Her grave hadn't contained anything Armeggaddon had been interested in, he could remember that much; why she had chosen this moment to reincarnate he didn't _want_ to know.

"The Dragon Booster," she said blandly.

"Whatever. Just let me go."

"One moment," the Dragon Booster said. "No tricks? You're not going to call the Shadow Booster or anything like that?"

"_No tricks_!" Moordryd cried, hating the way his voice was cracking. "Do I look like I'm going to try anything else?"

"Not _today_, anyway," the woman said. "Let him go now, Dragon Booster."

"Be careful in future, Paynn," said the Dragon Booster, suddenly releasing the mag-trap, and Moordryd stumbled, wrapping his arms around Decepshun's left foreleg to stay upright. "We'll be watching."

He slowly clambered to Decepshun's saddle; the bone mark had faded from her head, and she seemed almost as exhausted as he, her sides and tail scraped from the fall.

She swayed slightly, and to his further shame he leaned over her neck and threw up as the Dragon Booster watched.

"Actually, I don't think there's a way out," the Dragon Booster said, looking around at the vast underground area. "You'll have to wait for us to lift you back up."

--

He let himself into the Crew-compound long hours later after stabling Decepshun with a dragon-medic, thankful only that not one of his crew had dared to ask him what had happened.

Cain watched him nervously once he'd driven the other Dragon Eyes from the communal kitchen. "Uh. Do you want a cookie?"

"Get me a drink," Moordryd commanded, his voice worn to a rasp. "As alcoholic as we have."

_No, not alcohol_, he realised. It would only weaken his mind, but before he could speak up Cain replied. "We have Red Dragon Energy Drink," he said.

"Cancel that. Make me one of your lemon…things," he said, and then broke off into a cough.

Cain patted him on the back worriedly. "I'll be right there."

Moordryd watched him bustle around preparing the ingredients for the Eye cold-remedy, and felt a little better.

"Here you go. How are you feeling?"

Moordryd breathed in the lemony steam, thick and fragrant. "Tired," he said. "And sick of being used as a psychic chew toy."

"Yeah, I know the feeling," Cain said sympathetically. "Well, I don't. But you look really bad. And, no offence intended, smell really bad."

He glared at Cain, and then turned his attention back to the drink, clasping his hands around it as he waited for it to cool.

"Moordryd!"

The screen on the wall blinked to active, Word Paynn's larger-than-life face spread across it.

"Put that thing down and pay attention. You've disgraced me today. I've spent the full afternoon convincing the Academy administrators that you were in a state of sane automatism during your _frolic_ this afternoon, and given away two valuable mining contracts to franchisees unworthy of it. Your meeting with the Academy board is scheduled eight sharp tomorrow. Now. Let me salvage what I can out of your foolishness. Where did you find the artefacts?"

Moordryd looked up at his father's anger, and attempted to resign himself to the lengthy interrogation that would follow.

--

He had edited out Armeggaddon's involvement as well as the most recent presence inside his head, claiming that the Shadow Booster had promised him power in return for some previous assistance with the Dragon Booster. His father seemed especially interested in the language and history of the ancient warrior, and pressed him to describe as much detail as he could; but it seemed to have all but faded from his head, and Moordryd found himself quickly disappointing Word Paynn yet again.

"And that's all I can remember, Father. I'm sorry," he said weakly, damming his throat.

"Why did he attack me?" Word asked. "I would have agreed to assist a warrior such as that."

"Because he…because you're one of the most powerful men in Dragon City, Father," Moordryd said. "I convinced him to attack the Academy instead, because I didn't want him to kill you…"

Word smiled, though there was no trace of humour behind it. "I see. In unseating me, he thought he could rule the city. How very astute of him."

"Yes, Father."

Word tapped his claws against his desk. "Is there anything you have forgotten to tell me, Moordryd?"

"No, Father. I can't think of anything." It was true; his thoughts felt like cold porridge, lumpen and slow.

"Very well. I will ask you further questions tomorrow."

The screen blinked off at last, and Moordryd reached for the drink. Cain had long departed, and the beverage had cooled to an unappealing consistency and temperature; swearing under his breath meanwhile, Moordryd pushed it aside and left the kitchen, stumbling down the hallways until he could finally collapse into bed.

--

Artha waved the stick just above Lance's head as he jumped to retrieve it, keeping it just out of reach for his little brother.

"Give it, Artha! You've had _eight_!"

"Lance's estimation is correct," Parm chimed in. "I would suggest that you surrender it."

"Not now, Professor." Kitt lunged forward with her stick, silencing Parm by filling his mouth with its end, and he sputtered in surprise before swallowing the pink mess.

Mortis clapped his hands. "Enough dragonet-play." They had roasted marshmallows to keep themselves awake through the late hour, and in partial celebration of their discoveries; Mortis had expanded on some of the mythological detail that they had happened upon, and seemed inclined to continue.

"As I told you," he said, "the war had raged for long years before the Dragon Priests were able to choose the heroes to end it. An ancient king."

Artha looked up, interest in his eyes.

"A priestess' daughter," Mortis continued, his gaze turning to both his sons. "The Dragon Booster himself, a noble of the Blue Empire. His childhood companion and loyal ally."

Kitt and Parm exchanged glances.

"But even after the Choosing," Mortis said, "the battles yet continued, stealing their youth and that of so many others. But at last the crisis point came through the Fire Booster. You have seen her portrait in the Academy; more than any hero but for the Dragon Booster, she is remembered for her sacrifice. Martyred by the Shadow Booster, she gave her last breath to the network."

"Nice of her," said Kitt. "What about the others?"

"There is even less information available," Mortis said. "One was the ancient king known as the Spirit Booster. Some believed he had a destiny to regain control over the land—but he chose to return to the grave once the battle was over. I believe that it was his remnant which took control of Moordryd Paynn. As to the last, she was called the Warrior Booster, and she was the only human to tame the Samurox. A very formidable soldier."

"I'm scared of her already," Parm said.

"What was she like? Kitt asked.

"And what happened to her amulet? I bet I could be a warrior too!" Lance chimed in, raising his arms as though the air was attacking him.

Mortis smiled at Kitt. "She was the Dragon Booster's truest friend, faithful to him through their lives. She fought unswervingly by his side, and after the war they married. A famous partnership," he said. "As to the amulet, she destroyed it upon war's end, though the priests counselled her otherwise."

"You said it took the five colours of power and balance to end the war," Artha said. "Did the Shadow Booster suddenly change sides?"

Mortis shook his head. "The Dragon Booster destroyed him in revenge. Another representative of the Black Empire agreed to assist."

--

_It could have been himself, from behind, a long sheet of pale hair hanging over a black-clad back, but then he saw that the figure wore an old-fashioned robe, and as it turned to face him, he noticed she was a girl._

_She had his fair hair and grey eyes, but it was nothing like looking into a mirror. Into a family photograph, perhaps. Her face was more sharply drawn than his, all finely honed cheekbones and large eyes. She was at least an inch taller than him—and looked slightly younger, he hated to note. Most in Dragon City would not have called her beautiful, yet the cool glare from her eyes was compelling, and there was a sense of power to her that he could not have failed to miss after his training with Armeggaddon. She walked proudly, as though since birth she'd been accustomed to being obeyed, and small fragments of draconium embedded in her robes flashed under the cold lights._

_She walked to an older man, pale and black-clad like her, but with a red tint to his eyes that wasn't a trick of the light. They marched silently, perfectly in step along the ground, to a hall bathed in red. He saw complex designs etched into the roof, and humans in elaborate embroidered costumes thronging through it; dragons walked freely between them, proud heads raised and scales glittering like dark jewels. Red dragons were ranked along one wall, martial and fearsome; like the blacks, they gleamed with mag-energy._

_The room was silent in honour of the approaching two; a pair of large black dragons stepped through him and towards them, roaring in an honour guard. Their bone marks shone with barely suppressed power._

_A red woman took her place in the centre of the crowd; buxom and dark, she was the epitome of Sun City beauty, her bright robes drawing almost inexorable attention to her form. She stepped with fine-sculpted feet onto a glowing platform, next to the pale man; she raised her right hand, and the pale girl took it, offering it to the other. They intertwined their fingers, the pale girl watching intently, and the red and black dragons roared. Mag-energy all but erupted from the two black dragons to the clasped hands, followed by a bright red stream; the three stared at each other as the power exploded in glowing fireworks._

_A man in a black mask raised his hands above his head, and cried out. Another roar followed, almost so deafening as to destroy the hall altogether. A black dragon took the red woman then, magging her to its back as she sat as proudly as any ancient queen. She called a command in a language he did not know in melodious tones, and a red dragon did the same for the pale man._

_The powerful black stamped a foot on the ground. The floor shook then as all others repeated the movement, seeming nigh to collapse. The black dragon bearing the red mistress reared confidently in the air; she easily kept her seating, a bold red smile etched across her face._

_The pale girl stood beside her, waiting for whoever knew how long; the black dragon eventually ceased its movements and heeded her, allowing her to formally take the woman's arm as she dismounted._

_The dragon went to another of its kind, baying as though in conversation; a bevy of black-clad humans drew the woman among then, and a red-clothed group did the same for the man._

_The pale girl stared after them, nothing in her face showing emotion._

_And then she saw him, only a slight widening of her eyes betraying surprise._

"_You look like me," she said in ordinary Draconian, and raised a hand to touch his face. "I wonder if you know how she betrayed me?"_

--


	4. Part Four

**A****/N:** I can't believe it's been so long since I last updated! Anyway, I really appreciate those who have reviewed. Thanks to MaiBeyblader for her long reviews; I wrote Kitt/Cain as per your pairing suggestion!

The League of Eight has been borrowed, albeit slightly AU as has already been disclaimer'd. I warn for potentially disturbing content in this chapter.

--

_She had been working steadily for the past few hours, melting together paints by the heat in her hands and applying them to the canvas with her fingers as much as brushes. It was a rare enough opportunity, and though she wanted to finish, she regretted she had not had more time. Painting was an art Andraste-the-soldier too seldomly practised these days, and to spend such leisurely time with a friend was an even rarer prize._

_The double doors opened. Andraste looked up, surprised that someone was entering; they had been left entirely to themselves so far._

_Tieran called a greeting to both of them, which Myrtin returned._

"_The famous portrait!" He laughed. "May I see?" He walked behind Andraste before she could reply, gazing at it. "Brilliant!" he said expansively. "It's you to the life, Myrtin. And here I thought art was supposed to be all about perfect ideals!"_

_Myrtin did not reply; he continued on his path, whistling._

"_Art is about _people_, not perfection," Andraste said sharply. "Myrtin, look back at me; I need to see your nose properly."_

_She reached up a hand to touch the scar to the side of her nose. "I have always known I was no ideal," she said. "As has he. Generally speaking, other skills are of far greater importance."_

_Andraste laughed. "I agree completely. Perhaps our friend will, in time—or perhaps another will see past exteriors."_

"_Perhaps. Though speaking of time, Samurox wishes me to train with him this afternoon."_

_It was Andraste's turn to look slightly peeved. "Patience," she said. "Let the Samurox do without his Warrior for a while." She sketched in a few more lines, daubing paint onto the canvas in bold sweeps. "My hands have become too harsh for fine work, and I do not practice these days; I would it were otherwise. However."_

_She lifted the canvas with paint-streaked fingers, turning it towards its subject. "What do you think?"_

_The woman's face was warm and vital, strongly drawn in bold strokes; the scars she bore seemed only to amplify the strength of her personality, a true portrait of one vibrantly alive._

"_It _is_ me!" Myrtin laughed. "But no, you flatter me even so. It is beautiful, Andra, and I shall treasure it."_

"_It is not," Andraste said, "at all as attractive as the original."_

"_I am again flattered," Myrtin said calmly. "Shall I see you on the practice fields?"_

_Andraste shrugged, lowering her eyelids as she watched her companion. "Certainly."_

--

Their speed climbed easily past two hundred miles per hour. Neither troubled with concern; they knew the track, and what they did not know their powers could supply.

She could sense him, gold running alongside her, powerful and pure; she was not attempting to compete tonight, and gladly ran in tandem with him as the streets flashed by them. He drew heavily from the wellspring of their power, her own reserves a pale moon to his golden suns; she used the speed-techniques she'd learned by long years spent on the streets, and kept up.

At last, they came to a halt in a street completely darkened, both laughing like dragonets on red sugarclaw; she looked up at him, grinning.

"Let's go incognito for now, stableboy," she said. "It'll be fun!"

He laughed. "Yeah, you're right—it's been years since we got out on the streets without people cheering us. How's this?"

His armour changed to a bright racing suit in purple and lime green, with a crested haircut in bright pink to round it off; she giggled.

"How's—this?" She concentrated to transform her armour, and felt the long dress swirl around her, a bodice tightening and cold air on her neck and décolletage.

"Yeah, people won't cheer, but they might laugh—" Artha continued to riff, and then he saw her. "You look...incredible."

She…liked that gobsmacked look in his eyes, she remembered. Like a stunned mini tracking-dragon, one of those jewelled pets that had been the fashion years ago.

She smiled at him, the red dress flowing around her. "How about you take me somewhere better than an alleyway, stableboy?"

His armour shimmered into similarly formal gear. "Anything you say, m'lady."

--

They danced, in one of the Mid-City halls, their disguised dragons resting in the stables with some feed; for someone with so much fighting experience, it was _amazing_ he still managed to tread on her toes, but she kept her arms around his shoulders as he held her. He was warm and strong; she smiled, and purred.

"Wanna get something to eat?" he asked her as the evening began to wind down, the law-abiding citizens returning to their safe homes.

"Down City. That teashop with the onion rolls," she said. They'd eaten there with the rest of the team sometimes, celebrating after a race; the boys had held impromptu eating contests, and she'd slowly sipped her iced tea in between pretending she didn't know them.

_Memories…_

"Let's go." His formals changed to an outfit close to what he'd worn on the streets, back then, and she gave herself a cloak, not as warm as her armour but close enough.

The streets were cold as they wandered around, hopelessly searching for the place they remembered.

"I guess it's gone since then," Artha said. "I bet something else's open, though."

"Good."

It was _freezing_.

At last they pushed into the smoky interior of a rather seedy bar; Artha gawked at a scantily clad woman as Kitt found them a booth sufficiently secluded and clean, and at last they flagged down a bartender to serve them a Double Lava and a Fizzy Booster, with Draconian Fries to come.

She gratefully took a long sip of her warm drink, and reached across the table to hold his hand.

He grimaced. "Magna Draconis, you're freezing! Are you okay?"

"Yes." She gulped down more of the drink, relieved as it heated her. It was less alcoholic than spicy, a delicious taste with little likelihood of intoxication; she might try the Magma Grande later, if she felt like it.

He tasted his Fizzy Booster. "Mmm. Nothing like me."

"Let me be the judge of that." She grabbed it from him, fast reflexes keeping it from him, and tasted it herself. "Nah, you're right, it tastes great. I think I'm keeping it." She brought her long cloak's sleeve up in front of it, hiding it from view.

"Hey!" he complained.

She laughed. "Just kidding." She passed it back to him. "Bet I could drink you under the table, stableboy."

"Doubt it." He took a long sip, and then gave her a slightly tipsy grin. "Let's do it."

--

_I have done only what was best for the city_, she remembered the words, even through the smoky haze of the bar and Artha's arm around her shoulders. _Everything was destined. Including you._

She nestled into the curve of his shoulders, and snagged a chip from the table. Golden-brown and round, just the way she liked them.

_The gold. So…much of it_, she'd said. _It's changed us. I wish I remembered._

She cared for Artha, she knew that much; and there were any number of reasons why that was a perfectly right thing to do. She loved him, perhaps. It had been wonderful. She laughed at his joke, clinking her glass with his.

_You've come too far towards your destiny. Look at how much you've achieved._

At Artha's side. Her powers, used with his.

_It wasn't me. Was it? Tell me why it all changed!_

His jacket around her shoulders, keeping her warm from the cold wind that blew into the bar as some of the smoke in it dissipated into the night. He protected her, because it was he with the most resources; this was a _good_ thing about who he was.

_You remember your brave fight, of course. You helped my son transform all dragons back to gold. The ancient prophecies, fulfilled—and a city at peace._

"And that's how it changed," she said.

Artha stared at her; she hadn't realised she'd said the line aloud. "Never mind," she said, giggling. "Maybe we should go home now, though."

_The golden peace_, she had said. _Yes. I suppose that is what I always wanted._

--

Paused outside the stables, they shared a long kiss.

Racing, dancing, a date—a perfect night.

Exactly as she'd wanted it, she thought. He tasted of Fizzy Booster.

"So, coming up to my room tonight?" he asked as they reluctantly released each other.

"It's…pretty late," she said. "Do you want me to stable Wyldfyr and Beau?"

"No, I can…" He stopped a yawn. "Yeah, you're right, I'm tired."

"I'm not." She kissed him again, quickly on the cheek, leaving a faint trace of lipstick behind. Marking him; she wiped it off gently with her hand. "I'll do the job tonight, Artha. Sleep well."

"Thanks. See you in the morning." He yawned again, not bothering to conceal it. "'Night, Kitt."

She watched him heading back to the towers, and took Beau along to his stall.

Just as well the sleeping pills she'd added to his drink had finally started to work.

--

He was exhausted, and entirely unkempt from his late awakening and desperate rush. There was nothing Moordryd Paynn wouldn't have given for the chance to sleep for a full week, dreaming himself away from past visions and ancient would-be conquerors and early morning appointments in Sun City.

"Describe the events of the previous day." Sentrus sat with folded arms, staring balefully at him from across the marble desk.

"I had…helped the Shadow Booster. In the past. Some of the Down City Council view the Dragon Booster as a threat."

Her glare didn't let up.

"I thought it was part of my Crew responsibility. And then when he said he would reward me, I didn't think he was going to use me like that."

"You would have known the Dragon Booster is well-respected by Dragon City Security. Unlike the Shadow Booster."

"With all due respect to you, I don't respect Dragon City Security," he said, sitting up a little straighter. "They don't cover Down City, and they tend to switch between excessive force—they nearly fried even their precious Dragon Booster once, just because there were only nine of my fellow Crew-leaders outside with him—and complete incompetence. They rarely make captures without the Dragon Booster's assistance."

Sentrus nodded. "I see. I've heard that last is something of which you approve."

"Our Crews do what we can to protect Down City," he said. "Dragon City Security only damage things, but of course if they became a better force we could trust them more. But this isn't really on topic," he added.

"The Shadow Booster handed you a strange amulet?" Sentrus asked.

"Yes. And then it just took control of me. I tried to get free, especially when it tried to kill my father. But I couldn't stop it!" Letting the hysteria and pain show on his face wasn't difficult; he hoped she'd be sympathetic.

"You hardly appeared yourself, it is true," Sentrus said.

"Yes. I think the ancient warrior wanted the Academy because I respect it so much," Moordryd said. "So he thought destroying it would help him take over the city."

"Perhaps you should not respect the Academy so much next time," Sentrus commented dryly.

Moordryd guessed she'd seen through the flattery, and continued hurriedly. "He spoke ancient Draconian. He just kept bashing through things. It's fading from my mind now, I barely remember it. I wish I didn't remember anything."

That much of it was truer than he would have liked.

Sentrus frowned. "Perhaps you should visit an Academy historian and inform him about your experience."

"I told my father everything I could, and he recorded it," Moordryd said. "He's an amateur historian himself. I'm sure he'll tell me what more I need to do."

"I see." Sentrus tapped her foot on the ground as he waited, anxious to find out his fate.

"Your appearance suggested that you were under some form of possession, and Penn Racing have confirmed that via the Dragon Booster," she said. "However, you were complicit in this, and your acts caused immense property and structural damage. Did the ancient presence take anything from the Academy?"

"No," Moordryd said.

"Then we'll continue examining the wreckage for our property," said Sentrus. "You will be accepted back into the competition on probation, Moordryd Paynn. One single, small misstep—one dubious act, one cheating complaint, one use of mag moves—yes, even against Artha Penn—and you will be removed from the competition. I will tell you that I was against this decision, and I will not hesitate to expel you on the slightest excuse. Have I made myself clear, Paynn?"

"As diamond," he said, and made a move to leave.

She held up a hand. "There remains the discussion of certain paperwork. You are several days late to submit your registration form for the Firestorm race. Did you by any chance bring it with you?"

He slumped in his seat. "My dragon ate it."

--

_They lay between golden sheets beneath a blazing blue canopy, purpling bruises between her thighs._

"_Your Council claimed you were a virgin," he said. His muscles rippled as he stretched lazily across the pillows. "I should ask for more dowry."_

_She glared at him, clutching the sheets to cover herself as she sat up. "As you know, I learned a lot from my father," she said defiantly._

_He paused as the content of her words dawned on him. "Disgusting," he said, and lashed out at her with his fist; she blocked him, but his weight bore her down and forced her to the bed again as she screamed at him._

--

The smell was the same as always, thick and heavy with that underlying scent of danger.

Kitt ran a hand along Wyldfyr's neck as they waited at the starting block for the Firestorm; she'd come second the last time she'd raced it, to Chute in one of her final Down City races, and she fully intended to win this time. Especially considering how she felt _now_, ready for some real action.

She saluted Artha with two fingers against her helmet as they both waited for it to begin; he returned her gesture, a cocky grin on his face as he and Beau waited. Moordryd had been placed beside Artha, for once not bothering to throw an insult in their direction; he looked pale even for him and deadly serious about the race, as though his experiences with the Spirit Booster had turned him into a single-minded zombie himself.

Budge welcomed the crowd, the gates went up, the countdown began—and then they were off, sailing towards the first daring jump.

The Firestorm tested agility and endurance on a closed track consisting of a series of high-energy jumps through supercharged air, where thruster gear went off like disruptor mines on a field of fire grenades and fire grenades went off like something from the dragon-human war; it felt like a scene from the Dragon's Inferno, all blaze and smoke as each competitor sparked and spun and set off their gear.

The first pair of thrusters went off, Wulph's as he made the jump next to her; prepared, she and Wyldfyr avoided the trail of fumes in the air as they activated their Aero gear, flying to the next obstacle. The air smelt of honest smoke now, fully charged for action.

The side of her gear scraped along the wall, making bright blue sparks jump out of it; they pulled back from it just as Pyrrah caught up behind them. The sparks touched her like lightning, branding her hair blue and spurring her on to race alongside them.

Kitt activated her own thrusters to make the next jump, a tricky leap through a pale, narrow hole that was almost invisible; she and Wyldfyr flew through, navigating the course's tough requirements alongside Pyrrah.

Flying through a loop and a cloud of smoke, she saw a Dragon Wind and an Inner Order member both come to a dire end, out of the race when an explosion caused them both to lose balance and fall.

Pyrrah drew her Fire Lance; it crackled in the air, larger and far more vicious here than elsewhere in Dragon City, and Kitt magged across to meet her.

Wyldfyr jumped across a gap in the now-sealed track. Kitt's mag-field cut out, and she flung herself across the artificial shielding back to her dragon, dodging Pyrrah's fire. They went for another jump, Pyrrah just behind them—

—and then she heard Pyrrah cry out as she fell, the fire grenades she carried discharging in an inferno that reached the top of the dome; she looked back to see Moordryd and Decepshun catching up fast as they flung their ramming gear out behind them to narrowly miss Wulph.

Normally a bad choice, loading your dragon down with heavy gear like that in a race of this kind; but so far Moordryd looked about to claim a third.

_As long as Artha takes care of him._

Kitt took the next three jumps easily, remembering the strategies she'd seen Chute use on the instant replay—sledding, rappel, thruster for that extra push, then an easy glide down with Aero after making the leap through the highest gap. The air was clearer now, up here; she looked back to see Artha battling Wulph as Moordryd surged ahead of them, not too far behind her.

Well, she really couldn't let Moordryd win, could she?

"C'mon, Wyldfyr. Nearly there." She activated blue balance gear with her sledding gear on the zigzagging track, speeding along the deadly curves. A piece of star gear narrowly missed her head, and then exploded in front of her in a blinding shower of blue sparks surrounding her as well as Wyldfyr; she sent out rappel gear, though, and instead of falling from the track managed to leap to a safer section.

Morodryd laughed as he finally caught up to her, and she gritted her teeth.

It was _her race!_

She configured her thrusters, and activated them in his direction; the enormous amount of energy released turned the air red between them.

"Heat's on, Paynn!" she yelled.

"Overused line, Wann!" he returned. "Take these to _spark_ your imagination!"

Dragon Star gear, fired at her again and again, the blue sparks surrounding her as she struggled to remain on track; she activated her absorption gear, and held on through the mess of it all.

She grabbed the level-eight fire grenade she'd won in the Magma Inferno.

_Time to use it, regardless of the consequences!_

The gear hit the track ahead of her; she and Wyldfyr jumped as the pool of smoke climbed through the dome.

Something hit her on the back, and suddenly they were out of air, falling with a piece of Moordryd's rappel gear wrapped around Wyldfyr's midsection.

No, not just wrapped. Mag-locked. He smirked to her as she was brought back to his level, trying to fight her way out of the smoke; and behind them Artha jumped the hole in the track to join them.

A leap next, a midair navigation course through a series of screens that she and Wyldfyr handled easily; unfortunately, Moordryd and Artha remained closely on her tail. She reached to activate her thruster gear as they headed to the last stretch of track; her navigation system beeped, and she realised it had been damaged in the explosion. Moordryd beside her was smoke-blackened, Artha relatively unscathed; the three of them raced on the narrow track, almost colliding with each other as the finish line loomed in front of them. It was too late to bother with any battle, slowing both oneself and the opponent enough to allow the third to win; this was a speed race now, elbowing each other as they fought the track.

Herself, Moordryd and Artha. She ducked down across Wyldfyr to help him run faster, but beside her Artha and Moordryd seemed to be using mag-energy to get some last-minute help from their thrusters. She activated her Aero gear, pushing it out from Wyldfyr's sides to stop them from gaining.

Moordryd reached out a hand, scraping the side of Wyldfyr's scales. Their energy levels dropped; _mag-drain_.

Too bad the judges wouldn't be able to see what he was doing.

The air was charged with fire-to-become. She had those powers now, didn't she? Same as Artha.

She let it flare up within her. She had to be subtle about this, let it not fully activate—

"_Flame_," she whispered, and she felt the amulet warm against her skin as fire leaped from both her and Wyldfyr, and they raced past Moordryd and Artha to the finish line leaving flames behind them.

--

"Kitt! How _could_ you?" Artha asked accusatorily as they walked from the prize-giving area. "You used those powers, you _cheated_!"

"And riding the Dragon of Legend isn't?" She stopped in her tracks, folding her arms across her chest. "You've got good, stableboy, I know. But you wouldn't be racing at all if it wasn't for that dragon!" She pointed to Beau. "You were a total rookie! I _worked_ to win for three years before you turned up! Even Moordryd's got those mag moves!"

"It was still dangerous!" he said stubbornly. "What if you were discovered?"

"I was _careful_!"

"Not that careful! I _needed_ to beat Moordryd, and I got third thanks to you!"

She took in a deep breath to quell the red sparks rising before her eyes. "And I _didn't_ need to beat him? Newsflash, stableboy, I'm a racer too!"

He paused for a second. "I'm sorry, Kitt, but you're still too far behind Moordryd to get an Academy place ahead of him. It needed to be me, and you wrecked that!"

She felt ready to explode. She hadn't joined Penn Racing to _lose_. "Artha, don't make me blast you again," she said.

"I gave you those powers!" he yelled.

They both froze in place, staring at each other as though all of a sudden they had become strangers.

Kitt broke off first. "I'm going riding," she said coldly, and directed Wyldfyr to race away.

--

She returned to Penn Stables much later that night, after an exhausting workout on the training tracks.

"Kitt!" someone whispered to her; expecting Artha, she looked up ready to continue their argument, but saw Parm instead, working at his table by candlelight with various contraptions surrounding him.

"I thought it would be advantageous to work late tonight—and I did want to discuss today's events with you," he hissed. "Please refrain from waking the others."

"Bet you agree with stableboy, don't you?" she said, not bothering to whisper though not yelling either.

"Maybe." He held up his hands, attempting to forestall her from attack. "You...can't afford to be discovered. But," he added quickly just as she opened her mouth, "I have a secret of my own. I think we could help each other."

She frowned. "What secret, Professor?"

"It is located inside this secure draconium-inhibiting device."

He pressed a button, and the sides of a black box shimmered to reveal a cage containing two yellow-bellied newts inside, and something green at the bottom of it.

"You're keeping pets—" She took a breath as she saw what they stood on. "That thing better not be what I think it is!"

"I'm afraid it is," Parm said. "It is the amulet that Moordryd held; I picked it up just before we left."

"Mortis said it'd be safe there!" she gasped. "You're a total idiot sometimes, Professor. Remember the Samurox?"

"I do," he said stiffly. "And I've remembered a little of what it told me about concerning you, after Mortis' words on that night—or rather, concerning the Fire Booster."

Kitt sighed. "Okay, egghead, I'll bite."

"There was…a single human he respected, as Mortis explained," Parm said. "She was…strong. Hardworking. Kind, even, honourable in a different manner to him as she chose to go among the dragons to learn the truth about the war. He was a king, and he thought kindness would undermine his rule—but she was strong even though she was kind, and it made him value her more."

"Yeah, cool," Kitt said. "And did her _friend_ the _Dragon Booster_ take all the credit himself while she did all the work?"

"Maybe a little," Parm said. "She was his…friend. But she was friends with the Fire Booster, too. The glowing woman. The Samurox thought the Warrior was rather…blind about that." He laughed softly. "Anyway. Because you are the Fire Booster and I have the Spirit Booster's amulet and his dragon's bonemark, I thought that we could maybe both learn to help Artha at the same time?"

Kitt shrugged. "Fine by me."

Parm smiled, a look of relief spreading across his face. "Oh, good. Mortis would probably try to stop me, and Artha and Lance would probably tell him. I'm glad you can help me."

"All right, Professor. So what does that thing do anyway?"

"Well, from my preliminary researches it appears to have sustained the capability to project and contain a psychophysical matrix within an interior sphere, with activation and preservation functions utilized to…"

--

"Second place, Moordryd," his father muttered, running through the replay screens. "My, my. It appears you underestimated the durability of Kitt Wann's gear as you dragged her through that explosion."

Moordryd scowled. "I'm nine points up in the rankings! As long as I beat Penn and get a place, I'm going to win. I could come _last_ in the next race and still win!"

"I advise you to not do so," Word said coldly. "You need to work, Moordryd. Do you think I pay bribes for nothing?"

_You didn't pay them for nothing!_ Moordryd thought angrily, but said nothing.

"I expect a _first_ place next time," his father continued. "Is that clear, Moordryd?"

He pressed a switch, and Moordryd saw the red missiles rushing towards him as the security system was activated. There wasn't enough time to think of how unjust it was, merely to begin the process of raising a mag-shield as they hurtled through the air.

Time, though, seemed to slow to a crawl as he stared at them.

--

The yellow-bellied newts played happily around the amulet.

Kitt watched them rather dubiously. "Are they doing anything?"

Parm shook his head. "No. In each of the ten tests, although they show some degree of powerful irradiation with the draconium energies, after I cease their exposure and run them through a mag-drain system, they return to fully normal exemplars of the _Notophthalmus_ genus, as confirmed by two of my mother's colleagues, Mortis' light green feedback gear, and the dissection you assisted me with. And then the surviving ones are sterilized before being returned to the population, just in case."

"You've made all those other tests?" Kitt raised an eyebrow. "Don't make me regret feeling through newt goo just for you."

"You threw a heart at me! I was under the impression you were enjoying yourself!"

"Poor newts," Kitt said. "You really need a heart sometimes, Professor."

"I have found out all I need to know. I think," Parm added. "As you can see, the newts display no reaction to the Spirit Booster's amulet. This implies that the matrix is no longer functional, however the draconium power remains within it." He pressed a button, and the bottom of the newts' cage changed to the bonemark as the amulet disappeared under the draconium inhibitors. "The bonemark, however, appears to retain something of its power."

The newts' eyes glowed green, and they stood straighter; they paced around the cage, strutting like dragonroosters.

Kitt laughed at the sight.

"Typical dominance behaviour," said Parm, activating newt stunning gas to stop them attempting to break out of the cage. "However, by my measurements Decepshun throwing off the bone mark has significantly decreased its effectiveness, and if synchronised with the amulet should be controllable. Cyrano? Do you think you could handle this bonemark?"

Cyrano huffed; Kitt threw him a Draconee-Yum treat.

"So what comes next, Professor?" she asked. "We've done enough experiments."

"Since red is counted as the colour on the opposite of the draconium spectrum to green, you would be the obvious test subject," Parm said. "If you are able to approach the amulet without detecting any traces of the Spirit Booster's personality, you will prove that it is indeed presently inactive. However, if it is active, he will find it more difficult to control you, and I will be on hand with stunning gas."

Kitt nodded. "I'll do it," she said as Parm determinedly brandished the stun-gas canister. "How do I open this thing?"

Parm pressed a button on his control panel, and the lower panel of the inhibition box popped out, the amulet nestled inside.

Kitt reached cautiously for it, and lowered it around her neck, taking a deep breath.

--

_She can remember the legend of the Fire Booster, here for her now, the flame-clad warrior fighting beside her ancient green-strong ally._

--

_Listen, and I will tell you about my past, he hears the whispers. Come with me._

--

_She sees brief visions, rushing through her head like a gold-green sea, and then she only finds thin emptiness in them as she lifts the spent amulet, untangling it from her hair. Not so fortunate, the other._

--

_Two girls and a dragon on yellow grass_.

"Like a play, isn't it?" she said.

_The dragon bounces the younger girl on her tail as she laughs; the older studies a scroll as she lies below the dragon's head, holding it up as though to allow the dragon to read it as well._

"Oh Sister, Oh Little Sister, come play with me."

_The girl sings the familiar song tunelessly as she bounces._

"Three little girls in a yellow wood."

_The dragon smiles; black current sparks to the older girl._

"Oh Little Sister, my Sister, it's us with one of each."

_The scroll laid aside, the girl and the dragon laughing at the rhyme._

"Oh Little Sister, my Sister, you'll sing these words some day."

_A fair-haired woman in the distance, worry in her face._

"Oh Little Sister, my Sister, come to make us four."

_A bolt through the air._

"Four little girls in a yellow wood…"

_Silent screams._

"Oh Little Sister, my Sister, both come back to me."

_The box is blood-red, and consumed to the flames._

"_You must not weep for her," the human Pack-leader, her father, counsels her, and she scrubs the tears from her face with a hard-knuckled fist._

_Fire destroys it to gold. Gold of the arrow in the blood._

"_She is gone now. Her Bone was weak, my heir. Be thankful that you live instead of her."_

_She sees her birth-mother nod; she looks then to the Dragon first among them, she of the blackest Bone._

"_Listen to the Pack, little daughter," her dragonmother hisses in the clawed speech. "You will forget her."_

_She does not cry as she rests her hand on Sister, until afterwards into cold scales. And yet the memories continue to fade into black._

"_The command was for you, Sister." Her companion's tail twines around her, as though to throw her bouncing to the sky. "I have yet to choose my Pack-name. I choose now, for our sister-in-blood."_

_Chiara, the name graceful in clawed scribing._

_Little-Sister-my-Sister-be-as-one…_

--

"I suppose the death of our younger sister made it easier to avenge the death of my birth-mother, which happened four years later," Meggine said reflectively. "Of course, she had been slipping since that event."

_Fair hair spread around a bloodied face, one pale blue eye still staring into the sky. Too similar to another death._

_Rage filled them both, on the black ground beneath a sky of dark indigo, and when they were done there were no faces left._

"_My congratulations, daughter," was all he said afterwards, because there was no more to say._

--

"You see, that is not as important to me," she said. "And then there was the traitor."

"_Meggine, darling," she said. Fire glittered around her dragon. "People are dying."_

"_We are winning, and people have died for many years before this," Meggine replied coldly. "If you will not fight, then stay out of my way."_

"_The Red Empire…disliked the sheer number of deaths in your father's last battle. Andraste's Shadow, they have begun to call it."_

"_We outnumber the Boosters' forces still." How dare she comment, this Red-born woman who seemed to love luxury so much more than the delights of battle? She had been chosen as a pawn to bring allies, and now that had failed she was of no use to them. Her Red could barely form a coherent sentence, Chiara had told her; such a ridiculous combination of dragon and human!_

"_I suppose I could assist in dealing with allies, on the diplomatic side of things," said Lucivar. "I weary of endless war."_

"_You shall," Meggine said. "There are many on the battlefield greater than you, but I suppose you have your uses. Do well, and I'll reward you with another husband."_

_Lucivar laughed suddenly. "Stepdaughter, you never cease to amuse me," she said._

"_There is nothing amusing about my orders," Meggine said stiffly as Chiara growled softly. "I am my father's heir."_

--

"I can recall the day the treacherous Council informed me they would settle," she continued.

_Eight of them, the Council Regal of the Black Empire. Wyng, who often carried her through the skies. Nerissa of pure Bone. Loke the cunning trickster, her neverending opponent in the dragonkings' game. Dark Plutos. Imperious Fiat. Hekate of the deadly illusions and sharpened claws. Lameia the beautiful, without mercy. And Thanata, who never would open her eyes without intent to kill by their gaze. Eight below them, humans who shared their names; but they were there merely to follow orders and deal with the lesser Empires._

_Bar the one of them, now a red pile on the stone table, who had enabled Lucivar to buy a return to her Red Empire through providing him with enough information to purchase their surrender. Not that such fury achieved anything of importance._

"_They offer a human peace!" She slammed a bloody hand to the table. "This is not what my father perished to save!"_

_The eight faces, unmoving._

_Chiara roared. "Have you lost your will to fight, cowards?"_

_Thanata finally spoke, her clawspeech slow and measured despite the insult._

"_You will travel to them, Shadow's daughter. You will forge the peace that they claim."_

"_You will prevent them from murdering us all!" Fiat added. "Foolish younglings. You allowed _that human_ power—and you complain that she used it against you?"_

_Chiara curled her tail. "She and that red creature never possessed the sensibilities of proper dual-sapients!"_

I am sorrier than I can say that I did not heed you at first, Sister.

It is forgiven. Let us fight only these cravenings!_ Chiara sent back by the quickspeech that marked their bond._

"_That may be the case," said Nerissa. "Nevertheless. This battle must be postponed."_

"_It is true we have lost much," Plutos said. "Other dragons will be contented, for now." He looked around at the other seven, as though memorizing their faces for a final moment. "We promise you this, Shadowheir. This shall not be the end."_

"_We grant you no choice," said Wyng, and turned his face from her; Thanata opened a single eye a crack, and darkness fell._

--

"And then of course there was _him_," she said. "But I think we may do something else, now."

--

The missiles stopped in mid-air as he raised a hand, without even a visible mag-shield. The trapdoor below him gave out—but he was supported by sheer mag-power, and dismantled the surrounding systems with a single thought.

Word Paynn looked nothing short of speechless. "My son, how did you—"

He stepped forward, raised a hand towards Word's forehead, and magged control gear to it.

"From now on, you will be my servant," he said.

--

"It is…my opportunity?" Parm gulped.

"Sure, Professor." Kitt grinned. "I sure didn't feel anyone in there. Just a few little bits about the Boosters fighting. Off you go."

Parm resolutely stuck out his chin and stood, falling over his chair as he slowly went to the amulet, and took it up as bravely as though he was walking to his death. He reached into the box to draw out the bone mark; standing with him, Cyrano took it to himself, and they stood with closed eyes for a long moment.

And then he looked at her with his normal brown eyes and grinned, Cyrano beside him echoing the expression. "The Queen!" he said.

Kitt raised an eyebrow.

"It…gave me a flash," he said. "A red-haired golden woman. Like you. Although _not_ like you, because she was not you."

"Make sense, Professor."

"She was not you; she was not the Fire Booster, because she was his first Queen!" Parm said. "But they must both have been quite like you, I think," he said.

Kitt raised her other eyebrow along with the first.

"Yeah. Thanks, Professor," she said. "Wanna go do some training?"

--

The Academy was quiet.

They entered by mag-illusion, carried out their mission, and exited the same way, the orderly stillness disturbed only by the unconscious body on the floor of her study, who would wake remembering nothing until the critical moment.

--

"There's no doubt about it!" Parm put the camera down in front of them, and sped through the VIDDrecordings he'd taken. "Look at this!"

Black dragons flowed through the Paynn Citadel via back and side entrances, a tide that looked to be neverending at the speed.

"And combine with this! I have taken infrared recordings as well, and have rendered wraith dragons as visible black dragons with purple outlines. Look at this version!"

The black dragons were joined by wraiths, with the difference that they only went into the Citadel.

"He's…building an army," Artha said. "Where do all these dragons come from, Parm?"

"The black dragons appear to be partly owned and partly wild," Parm said. "I've only been able to find some registrations. The vast majority of them leave again; it's the wraiths who stay inside."

"Yeah. It's been a while since I've had a problem with wraiths," Artha said thoughtfully. "It's been a while since I've had a problem with Moordryd or Word too, now you mention it."

"You must be on your guard, Artha," Mortis said. "Word Paynn probably intends to build up his forces and energies to start his dragon-human war in a single quick stroke."

"But how?" Artha asked, and the room fell silent for several seconds.

"We'll find out," Kitt said. "So when do we leave, stableboy?"

--

He walked quietly through the Citadel. It was almost deathly quiet; Parm's navigation matrix of the security system flashed green over his eyes, and he made his way past the bare walls, surprised at how empty it was.

Perhaps Word had simply decided to go minimalist? It felt like the place had been cleared out, trimmed of all but essentials.

Finally, just after he had finished flipping himself through a network of tripwires, he came upon a locked door.

"Place your wrist to the lock and I'll commence scanning," Parm said.

"Done."

Green light swept across the lock as the decoder went into operation.

"It's an awfully complex lock," Parm said. "Much more so than any manufactured by Paynn Incorporated that I've studied." He paused. "In fact, it doesn't feel like a Paynn lock at all! This must be ancient technology." His voice took on wonder. "Amazingly intricate ancient technology, of tremendous value to…"

Artha cut him off. "Can you get me in or not?"

"I can," Parm answered sulkily. "But it will destroy opportunities for study…"

"_Do it_," Artha said, and a mag-beam went out from the decoder to render it a pile of scrap metal as the door clicked open.

"You must hurry, Artha," Parm said. "I am attempting to suppress alarm signals, but the state of the lock will not go unnoticed for very long!"

He hastened forward through the sealed corridor, noting Word's screens set into the walls. Several doors, fastened with similar locks, led away from the corridor; various doors to Word's secret projects and deadly gear, Artha knew, but Parm had been unable to gather any information about which was which.

"I guess I'll go for—this one!" He reached out for a door in the middle of the right side of the corridor, hoping the Dragon Booster's legend wouldn't fail him now and have him plunging into a crocodrag pit or something. "Parm, I need your decod—"

The screen next to the door blinked into life, and he started back as he saw Word Paynn's face.

"Drag…ooster," he heard him say, the signal cracking up. "Need…message get through. New…prisoner forty-four B…need help…."

Artha stared as the signal blanked out.

_A trap?_

Or was there truly a hostage somewhere in the Citadel, even Word Paynn himself?

"Parm! Where's room forty-four B?"

"I'm on it," Parm replied. "The exact location is hidden, but I assume it's down in the base of the complex if the numbering scheme is similar to my hypothesis. Why do you want to know?"

"I need to go down there," Artha said determinedly. "Which door do I take?"

"Accessing current physical orientation—Artha, look to your left—your _other_ left—yes, _that_ other left… Take the third along. I'm ready to break the lock."

Artha hastened down a twisting ramp, dimly lit; he didn't see any human or dragon signs here, nothing to indicate that the Citadel was not completely deserted.

Then again, Word Paynn probably didn't want an audience for his trap. He travelled down further into the complex, aware that he needed to be prepared. Perhaps the whole population of wraith dragons would spring on him.

"Right turn, Artha—yes, I'm gathering information about the Citadel as we go. Forty-four B is definitely somewhere to your left now; keep heading down."

"Can you detect any wraiths?"

"No," Parm said. "This network appears to be for purposes of concealing the lower sections. I can detect the security system and inert draconium in storage—mostly black, from my readings—but not wraiths."

"Then where did they go?" Artha asked.

"I've been getting vague readings that possibly originate in the east part of the Citadel, as though the whole lot of them are gathered there. But that's far away from where you're headed. Why do you want that location, anyway?"

"I'm either walking into a trap, rescuing someone, or both," Artha said. "Keep me posted."

"_Artha!_ This is a most unwise idea; you are without Beau, and you could get caught! I strongly recommend against your plan. You should…"

"I'm sorry, but I've gotta do this, Parm," Artha said. "With or without your help."

"You—you complete—no, go _left_, Artha, there's only a storeroom there, oh Magna Draconis, how I get cajoled into these things I don't know, this was only meant to be an observation mission, I'm sending Beau to you right now…"

--

He felt slightly relieved when he saw Word Paynn in one of his own holding cells, bound with a pair of his own restraints, his clothes dirtied and his hair matted.

"Dragon Booster!" he exclaimed, falling into a coughing fit. "You have to release me. My son is…"

He started coughing again.

"Is this a trap?" Artha asked suspiciously.

"No! No, it's not. Have you looked into Moordryd's face lately? He is _insane_!"

Word Paynn leaped forward, rattling the bars of his cell; at another time, Artha could have been amused at the spectacle, but he almost pitied the man.

"Moordryd, insane? He's been racing," Artha said. "Not against me, but he's been seen around."

"And has he been with his Crew?" Word asked. "Believe me, Dragon Booster! There's something wrong with him, dreadful beyond belief…" He shivered. "I tried to fight him—it, and it threw me down here as though I was nothing more than refuse!"

"…So he's gone good again, then?" Artha said, though he regretted the gag almost immediately afterwards. "Yeah, he hasn't been with his Crew. But…"

"I should not fear my own son!" Word cried, hysterical again. "I do not know whether he has been possessed again, or has simply lost his reason altogether. He has _changed_, and although he looks the same there is another behind his eyes, something dark and screaming and _wanting_…"

"And behind you," said a cold voice, and Artha turned to see Moordryd.

He'd fought Moordryd lots of times before and had mostly emerged victorious, and so hardly felt nervous about the possibility of another battle.

But there was something different about him this time; perhaps it was his appearance, his hair tied into a loose tail and a black shirt flung loosely around him, or the way his voice sounded smoother, more carefully modulated, or something that was more than either or both of those.

Or just hysteria.

"Moordryd," Artha said. "I heard you'd given up working for your father."

He smiled, the quick sudden movement of a predator snapping a neck. "I haven't," he said levelly, and fired a mag-burst which pinned Artha against the cell door.

Artha tried to fight back, held by the dark burning fire of it; but without Beau he had little chance, and he saw a black dragon behind Moordryd, a bonemarked breed resembling the Shadow Booster's dragon. He felt the mag-attack stretching his limbs, pulling his muscles to near breaking point.

"Moordryd, stop! You don't know what you're doing!" he called.

The bonds around him expanded, and the ceiling above them was removed. He felt he was being slowly rent apart, sinew ripped from bone and skin ripped from body, pushed into the air as the centre of a rapidly expanding mag-storm. Bright whips tore him.

"Moordryd isn't home right now," Moordryd said. "But I think I will make up for it with you."

--

"We've reached the part about him, now," she said as Artha screamed. "I will tell you what I remember."

--

Quick flashes, as though she still cannot bear to see it in full.

_It ends in gold, shocked faces staring down as she falls from the bridge in desperate hatred._

Sister, I apologise—

_And yet it did not end there. But that is another part of the story._

_--_

_The League of Eight; they had hidden just in time. She sees their bodies led into the city in which she feels herself trapped, a diplomatic benefit only in theory as meaningless chatter fills her days._

_It means nothing, she tells herself; they had placed their bonemarks elsewhere. They would rise again._

_She did not necessarily believe that._

_--_

_The green one, his uses over with the end of it all, buried peacefully and calmly and hurriedly, deep in the ground confined within a small urn. _Utan Fist. Once king of this land. 'Until I am needed'. So let the Spirit be buried anew for all his brave deeds.

_A tedious event she is required to attend as trophy-queen. Irrelevance._

_--_

_An unfamiliar bedroom. Her nails are marked in his flesh; but away from their dragons he is stronger, and he enjoys to have defeated her at last._

_She allows herself to lie passively, letting him take what he will. He seems to prefer her this way, and even once refers to her as _beautiful_; she loathes him and loathes this, these fallen days._

_And then he tells her what the Sea will become._

_--_

_The blue woman, troubling to talk to her not long after the ceremony's exhaustions, offering her an invitation to tour the city at some later point. She refuses rudely, amused by the resentment the woman tries unsuccessfully to hide. She is young enough to have been born to her, unscarred in face and much fairer in complexion; these things matter, among humans, and it is almost pleasant to show the blue that she has seen through part of her. Nevertheless, the Warrior remains unperturbed, carrying out her duties without the benefit of her powers as her dragon returns to his changed home._

_A fool._

_--_

_A wedding, not so long after her father's. Black, for her, edged garishly with gold; and pure white for him, glistening gold at his collar and sleeves. She walks dragonless to him, unbound hair blowing in her face. A priest utters the words of the ceremony, few dragons standing by to sanctify it; the dragon of legend is heard to roar, and golden light binds her hand to his._

_--_

_And a peace at another ending, five places in the circle. An odd gathering, three Boosters and a dragon's daughter and the Black Empire's dispossessed heirs. The Vivat and her rider have been dealt with, the Vysox and hers besides; the remnant is all that is required. And the grey dragon, standing beside the gold over them to magnify._

_The network pulses red already. The Dragon Booster and his traitor-dragon are first to send out their mag-burst, perhaps emphasising their position; next is the Fist, and then the Warrior coaxes the Vivat's daughter to fire. She hesitates, as though unwilling to destroy the trace of red that remains dancing across the network's glowing spines (weak, so weak she must be); and then the Samurox catches his human, and the blue is quickly added._

_She ruthlessly calls upon Chiara's mag-energy, loathing every moment it courses through her, and adds what remains of her father to the growing power._

_The Libris roars; she feels her power intensified, blended with the other four. The golden light is so bright as to blind them, encompassing them in its glory. She sees in her mind the gold spreading, passing through the network under the earth as dragons roar._

_And she sees the lost bonemarks, falling like scattered leaves; she could weep for those deaths, but there is enough of her own to care for._

_It is finished. _Tetelestai_. Chiara growls, and then black creeps across her vision as she falls on her dragon's neck._

--

Unrelenting pain. The vicious storm of whips, flaying him inch by inch.

"I did nothing!" he tried to scream, but it did not heed him. He screamed again, trapped in the blazing cold pain of it. The amulet burned as the unwanted vengeance seeped through, crying hellfire accusation.

"Not me—not you—no!"

Reason left his mind, forced from it by the bright-bursting lashes against him; he screamed again, rendered a mere creature in suffering.

The shadows claimed him.

--

_They walk together, the pale and the red._

"_I lost both of my children—or one, at least, for the other misplaced herself," said the pale. "Shall I speak for this, of the tale of the beginning, and of the middle?"_

"_I was barren," said the red. "But I aided the beginning of the end, and witnessed four of the funerals; if anyone has the right to speak of these things, it is us."_

"_My family belonged to none," the first said. "We fashioned plowshares more than swords, and sold—always at a profit—to whomever we pleased. We had been doing this since the beginning."_

"_Mine belonged to one, and I suppose I belonged to two," said the other. "I bought and sold myself, though not always at a profit." _

"_Dragons, humans," the pale said. "We both worked, almost always. My thrice-great grandfather saw it begin, delivering barley in the north when the attack on the capital came. Or so my great-uncle claimed, for it was such a long time ago. My twice-great grandfather became a prisoner of will's empire of earth, and my great-grandfather slipped from that net much later on. And my grandfather was a boy when the Dragon first rose…"_

"_I have not your family history," said the red. "Probably we were foot-soldiers, peasants. But the pawn must sometimes reach the other side, to give others enough hope to destroy themselves."_

"_I wished to learn to fight, and was sent to school with the daughter of a priestess," the other said. "She was called the Noble Knight, for her habits and chivalry; several years younger than me, I learned about her from the tales of upperclassmen she had defeated."_

"_My father rose to General, and wed late in life; that is where I come from," the red said. "I knew little of the beginnings."_

"_I learned of the Dragons, and did not look away," said the pale. "And went with the one who taught me to his home. Will I tell you of the reasons, the previous bloodshed and slavery? I know these things, perhaps more than most."_

"_I can tell you of the later bloodshed," the red said. "Those with reasons would have fought to an infinite darkness, immolated themselves with their own ichor. My brother died. My aunt-by-marriage died. Five of my six cousins died, one in that great battle. I resolved to change."_

"_My heart-sister would have perished at the hands of the Humans," said the pale. "My husband told me of his true goal and his reasons why, and I agreed fully with them."_

"_Too much blood for my tastes, though," said the other. "Your misplaced one would not change. And I truly did miss my family."_

"_I suppose she was never mine, in a way," the pale said. "Always her father's, with something missing from her. Perhaps her sister stole it away. But you should not insult her."_

"_I could tell you about the battle the shadows won, and the deaths, the death; many turned on us as too brutal, and to fight to an ending would have murdered more," said the red._

"_I could tell you about other deaths, my death."_

_The pale one's eyes were like chips taken from the highest and palest part of the sky, staring into nothing._

"_I could tell you about my taste of treachery vile, and my living afterwards, for traitors are never welcome. I could tell you what remains unknown, as you have done, for we both should know. But most of all I can tell you of the Four's end—"_

_Her lips were still red; her face was like a dark diamond, expression flashing across it like a spinning crystal on a chain._

"_The last was the gold, of course."_

_The pale one turned to him, her face as unyielding as frozen iron, more terrible than a thousand Muhortas. "I still owe you for my daughter's sake, I believe."_

--

And then another scream as he fell to the ground, black bolts shooting through his mind. He could not so much as peel his head from the floor; he tried to curl around himself, but found himself trapped there.

"Leave him alone!"

"As the Fire Booster stated. Keep away from our friend!"

"_You_?"

A roar, and the warmth of golden draconium at last touching him. He let himself fall across Beau's neck; he had endured beyond endurance, and collapsed.

"And me!"

Beau's head jolted, forcing him to open his eyes and see a Lance-shaped hole marked through the walls of Word's citadel, inexpertly closing itself with patches of stray masonry. He closed them, not troubling to care about anything beyond his exhaustion.

"I—I'll destroy you all! How dare you!"

"The Dragon Booster's our friend!"

"I have no friends, and yet I shall have revenge—"

Two screams.

A voice, close to him. "Artha, wake up!"

He tried to feel inside himself for the hidden power, the place inside him where he possessed the legendary giftings. Beau was with him, he told himself, friends supporting him; and he managed to sit up, power glowing gold around him.

He was—was _not_ the person in screamed accusations and recriminations, the one who had come before; but he needed to draw on that strength, and tried to remember.

_The first time he saw her, he was alone at the base of a cliff; she attacked first, sending down a rockfall an instant after he'd glimpsed her. It would have destroyed him had he not erected the mag-shield just in time, a dome that let the rocks harmlessly fall around them._

_She leaped down when she'd run out of avalanche, perhaps to ensure her kill; he laughed when he saw how young she was (was Armeggaddon sending babes now to do men's work? Humorous indeed!). And he defeated her easily, sending her back with her battle armour and half her clothing gone rather than troubling to destroy her. Foolish not to finish off an enemy, Utan had pontificated when he had told the joke (it was rare, after all these years of battle, to still have something of amusement; if the corpse wanted to deprive himself it was none of Tieran's affair), with Andraste in agreement; but Myrtin had agreed that he should not have killed the girl-woman. They had been right; black blood ran foul even in whelps._

_Armeggaddon's bitch-daughter had returned, though, as bitter with hatred as her sire; more of a challenge now, fast and nimble and channelling mag-energy as well as any other. He remembered her mag-rip after more of Armeggaddon's dragons had torn at him and Ceph, the power grasping him like it was ripping his body to its component parts._

_Like he'd become nothing but meat to her. He even remembered _screaming_ with the last of himself, before Myrtin and Andraste had saved him, and resting, remembering the early days when the bitch's _father_ had done the same thing to him before he had mastered his abilities as now._

_Battles, again, her pale face and hair like a beacon amidst the dragon-sent warriors as she stood alongside her father. He saw her techniques—quick and sharp mag-flurries, mag-storms of lashing whips, and finally the deadly mag-drain—and conquered them, duelling with her father above all the others in the dragon hordes._

_He had won that battle, eventually, because he'd had to, and sealed Armeggaddon in the Shadow Track while his spawn went on in his place. He remembered his cold viciousness in finally subduing her, taunting her as she attempted to taunt him. He'd been the one to save the world…_

_She was attractive, considered a certain way; a _girl_ he'd won in battle._

_He remembered her death, as well. The Keeper Swyftleap escorting both of them to show the progress of the Sea, even flirting lightly with her as he showed off the Staff's powers and the triumph of his engineering, the bonemarks brought in from all over the world to be melted together and thereby maintain the network. Naturally she wasn't impressed, but remained silent. They walked across the bridge, the Sea below them._

_She paused in the centre, looking down as they went on. And then he saw her fall over the railing, gazing blankly up as her hair blew about her face; he could hear Swyftleap screaming as she faded into gold. An accident, possibly, or a piece of pure foolishness; certainly not his responsibility, though in later years rumours were formed. He could have asked absolution for his treatment of her; but on the other hand she had claimed to be a warrior, and suicided to avoid the consequences._

_Only a girl, lying beneath him. Only an enemy, more than defeated. Nothing to be concerned about, foolishly _dead_ in that accident, broken and forgotten…_

"You made me remember!"

The shield burst around him, ending her mag-hold on his friends.

"I'm not him. _You_ did this!"

He reached out for her, reversing the mag-drain she had prepared and dragging her to him.

"Do you remember now?" he screamed at her. The mag-streams between them were for memory, now, ripping both apart in their torrents. "I could make it happen again—it's your fault, _be_ hurt as you wish—_wife_," he whispered, letting the mag-stream pull her to him.

Her turn to scream, the memories alight between them like dark fire; she kicked out at him, and he was knocked back into the wall as she escaped him. Lance raised the staff he carried, and rubble from the ceiling fell to stop her; but Moordryd and the black dragon leaped past it, disappearing.

"Would you consider letting me out, Dragon Booster?" Word Paynn asked, tapping meaningfully at the bars of his cage. "I'm hardly responsible for my son's current behaviour."

"Okay," Lance said. "Hey, Dragon Booster, look what I can do now!"

Before he could stop him, Lance tapped the staff he carried on the floor, and the bars of Word's cell along with a good portion of the surrounding wall fell away, revealing vast control panels.

"Very much appreciated, Dragon Booster," Word Paynn said dryly, and pushed a button on the revealed wall. "Very much appreciated."

"Look out!" Kitt yelled, and he felt something invisible knocking him and Beau back.

_Kitt. It was _her_, not—_

"It would be most efficient for us combine our energies!" the green-armoured figure called, and he stood side-by-side with Kitt to create a mag-shield. Artha added his powers to theirs, draining himself; and together they forced the shielded mag-racks to visibility, and sent them crashing to the ground.

"It can't be—" Word said; Artha used the last of his power to fire a mag-blast from his hand, and sent him careering across the floor in front of the blinking lights on one of his control panels.

He took a deep breath. They'd won, he thought. Yes. They'd won.

He looked up at the red figure next to him. "Kitt," he said. "It's _you_, you saved me, please—"

And promptly collapsed.

--

"Lance, you have not been sufficiently trained in the Staff's uses! It was foolish of you to go with them to invade Word's Citadel, no matter what you believed!"

_Mortis_; he could recognize the voice as he awoke.

"We saved Artha! Doesn't that count for anything?"

Lance, in reply.

"That is right," Parm said. "I realise and admit that it was not for the ordinary ten-year-old—but Lance was of assistance."

"See, Dad? I can _do_ this!"

"You still need to work on your training! And the same for you, Parmon. You should not have picked up that dangerous amulet!"

"I ensured that it was perfectly safe," Parm said. "I _helped_ Artha, along with Kitt—we saved the day! Although Moordryd is nowhere to be found," he added.

"Yeah, the Professor totally did good—I even taught him!"

"Thank you, Kitt. I do try."

"You all were—reckless," Mortis said. "You all—are heroes in your own right, and I suppose that is something to be proud of. But in the future…"

"Yeah, yeah, we got it. How's stableboy?"

A cool hand on his forehead; he blinked, seeing bright colours gradually resolve themselves into a face staring at him.

"Waking up," Kitt said, peering concernedly at him. "Artha, you okay?"

"Yeah," he said, reaching out to take her hand. "Yeah, I am now."

_Her. It's _her.

--

They appeared as four at the Council meeting to which Phistus had summoned them, unsure of the reason.

"Almost feels like we drove Word and Moordryd off for good," said Artha; they hadn't seen either of them at all in the week since the battle. Moordryd had even skipped a race. "Maybe we even knocked whatever that was out of him…"

"I do not know," Parm said, echoing Mortis' words to them. "They may have something planned, perhaps even this."

Artha shrugged. "Boosters together; let's go."

The Shadow Booster stood beside Phistus, showing him various documents and passing them around to the rest of the Council; Phistus looked grim as he stared at them, and some of the Council members looked hostile too, watching the Boosters enter with cold looks on their faces. Even Captain Faiar was there, standing next to Phistus and viewing the do

"What's going on?" Artha demanded.

"Secure the door," Phistus commanded, and Wulph and Marianis locked it, placing down heavy iron bars to firmly cross it.

"What's wrong? Why close us in?" Kitt asked.

"You're accused," said the Shadow Booster, "of murder."

He flicked a photograph across the table to Artha, who picked it up and gagged. Word Paynn, impaled upon one of the Citadel's spikes from the walls, clearly deceased.

Artha placed it face down on the table quickly, his stomach churning. "We didn't do it," he said blankly. "We fought Moordryd. We helped him. We left the Citadel after we fought off his trap. That's all."

Parm reached for the photograph; Artha saw his chin below his helmet pale. "We left Word Paynn alive and unconscious," he said. "I would hypothesise that it was an accident; that he stood and set off his defences by mistake…"

"Are you implying that Word Paynn was to blame for his own death?" the Shadow Booster asked. "I know you were against him! But none of us thought you'd stoop this low!"

"No," said Kitt. "I'm implying that Moordryd was to blame."

Several Council members as well of the Shadow Boosters gasped, shocked.

"He—or whoever, he's got a habit of getting himself possessed—had Word imprisoned in his own Citadel," she explained. "We turned up and _saved_ him. He put us in a trap, we knocked him out, end of story. You want someone to blame, pick the Shadow Booster or whatever was controlling Moordryd. I'm sorry someone's dead, but it wasn't us."

Artha nodded, grateful for her support.

"You blame _Moordryd_?" The Shadow Booster flung across a piece of paper as though it burned him. "Read his statement to Dragon City Security! Learn from anyone that he did everything his father wanted. No evidence that he—that he ever would—"

Parm took up the sheet. "_I was on my own maintaining some gear when I heard a noise from the basement of the Citadel. I went down with my dragon Decepshun to investigate. When I arrived there, I saw the Dragon Booster placing my father in one of the cells. I challenged him, and then the others came and fought me. I had no choice but to run. When I returned to the Citadel as soon as they were gone I found my father dead._"

"Liar!" Artha cried. "_Moordryd_ imprisoned Word! Word said there was something wrong with him!"

"You have no proof of this," Faiar said. "And yet Moordryd's testimony matches any number of people who will swear to it being in character for him."

"And murder is in the Dragon Booster's character?" Artha yelled.

"We don't _know_ your character!" the Shadow Booster cried. "You hide behind that mask and none of us have any clue who you are…"

"No, but we've seen _you_ attacking the Council, stealing dragons and trying to seize ancient powers for yourself!" Kitt returned. "You first!"

"_I_ am not under suspicion of murder!" the Shadow Booster shouted at her.

"You're one of Paynn's associates," she snapped back. "If we're worthy of suspicion—you must be!"

"It was _not me_!" he howled, and unexpectedly sent a mag-blast at her. "Unmask yourselves, damn it!"

"Now calm down…" Faiar raised his hand, and Phistus his hammer; Artha prepared to defend them, mustering his and Kitt's power. "We can settle this the easy way…"

"I demand _justice_! There _is_ no easy way!" the Shadow Booster screamed, and knocked Kitt off her feet as he blasted her to the other side of the room.

Artha saw her helmet fall off, watching in horror as her face was revealed.

"Kitt Wann!" the Shadow Booster exclaimed, pointing to her. "The rest of you. You've been the Penn brats, all the _time_, and you—you _murderers_!"

"Let's see who _you_ are," Artha spat; drawing on Kitt's powers to help defend them, he blasted the Shadow Booster, using a whip of flame to start to peel away his helmet.

"Artha, look out!" Parm called, and smoke suddenly filled the room as the Shadow Booster flung out a disrupter mine from his sleeve.

The sound of boots landing on the table. "This has gone far enough!" he cried, and as the smoke cleared Artha saw Moordryd standing there, a dark amulet dangling from his raised hand. "I stand as the Shadow Booster, in opposition to those who would wantonly kill. I accuse Artha Penn, and Kitt Wann, and Parmon Sean of this deed; I demand that the Council provide me due justice; I offer the truth, and claim only this in return!"

/iMoordryd_ was the Shadow Booster?_

"I agree with him!" said Pyrrah, standing beside him.

"The stablebrats have something to answer for," said Wulph, joining her.

"I call for order!" Phistus slammed his hammer down on the table. "Unmask, all of you!"

Artha took off his helmet as Parm did the same, trying to stop himself from wasting the time boggling at the revelation. "Yes, I'm Artha Penn—" he began.

"And you have been lying to us all this time, laughing at us!" Pyrrah said; glancing around the Council room, he felt like most of the others agreed with her. Even Phistus and Marianis stared coldly at him.

"Enough!" Faiar called. "Listen to me. We can bring charges for vigilantism in due time—against _all_ of you. Get off the table, Paynn, and listen to me!"

"_I want justice_," Moordryd hissed again, and fired at Artha a second time.

"Moordryd, calm down—" Phistus said.

"He's out of control!" Kitt called.

Artha ducked, and Moordryd's volley hit behind him instead, ripping through the sealed door to show darkness.

"You killed my father!" he screamed.

Artha blinked at the devastation, running to defend himself from the attack; he saw the mag-drain attach to Kitt instead, drawing energy up from her armour.

"Stop fighting!"

Parm jumped into it, stepping in front of Kitt to block it; suddenly, Moordryd reversed the drain, and sent them both plummeting down outside.

_No_

"Moordryd, stop this!" he yelled. "You can't bring your father back this way!"

"Let me show _you_ what it's like!" Moordryd screamed, charging towards him. "You—"

"You hurt my friends!"

Artha stopped him with a mag-shield, glowing red-gold; he stumbled back, but quickly pulled an iron bar from the floor in a mag-lift.

"Big mistake, Dragon Booster!"

Artha felt it wrap itself around his throat, bending him to his knees.

"You know something?" he got out, strangled. "We didn't kill him. _But I'm not sorry Word Paynn died._"

"What he said!"

Kitt, leaping in through the broken door on a mag-board. Relief filled him. He let her have the power for this; she took Moordryd away from him, blasting him away and battling him in a series of mag-strikes.

"I don't care what your deal is, Moordryd," Artha said as he managed to manifest a lasso with their powers, keeping him in place. "You leave me and my friends alone. Word tried to kill us a hundred times, and we never tried back. If anyone deserved it…"

"No!" Moordryd cried as he struggled

He was _right_, he knew.

_Word Paynn deserved what he got_, now it was over.

The only question was whether it was Moordryd or an accident.

Faiar frowned. "First he's the Shadow Booster, and now he's gone beserk. Now these rumours about possession make sense, Paynn. I'm gonna have to…"

"_No_!" Moordryd screamed again, and pushed himself out of Artha's hold, disappearing on Decepshun as fast as an eel into the night.

And then Mortis, talking to him.

"Dragon Booster. It is time. Speak to them!"

"I—" he began.

"You are the only one who can," Mortis said, and fell silent.

Phistus shook his head. "I suppose we should thank you for fighting him off," he said. "But…"

_What would Mortis do?_ He was supposed to be a legendary hero; he couldn't let this pass, everyone thinking the worst of him.

He slammed an armoured fist down on the table. "Listen to me," he said. "Kitt, go get Parm up here. He's okay, right?"

She nodded, and leaped down past the doorframe.

"Pyrrah, do you have forging gear? Let's fix the doors."

He hefted the doors with a mag-lift, holding them in place; some of the Council actually looked impressed, he thought.

She stepped forward with a toss of her head and sealed them.

Good. If he could do this, make them believe him, maybe this would be the end of the Shadow Booster once and for all.

The Dragon Booster's…legend.

"Believe us," he said simply. "Now let's face what needs to be faced together, whether the Shadow Booster attacks again or not. I'm on your side. I've always been on the Council's side."

Phistus nodded. "I'm listening," he said eventually. "Why hide your identity for so long?"

"I was worried I'd be kicked out of racing. But some things are a lot more important than that."

Khatah looked thoughtful. "Perhaps we can understand that," he said.

"Penn Stables does have a spotless record," Faiar mused as Phistus nodded.

Parm and Kitt returned together, standing beside him.

"What about you two?" Wulph asked. "We haven't seen you around like that before."

"We have not possessed these powers for very long," Parm said. "We've stood with the Dragon Booster before, though, and we've learned that the Council needs to unite." He looked to Artha. "That is what we wanted to do, right?"

"Yes." Artha looked at the Crew-leaders standing before him, a rainbow in green and red and blue and purple. "We need to swear together to _stop_ the fighting. That's all I want."

_Together the gold._

Faiar nodded, shortly, turning to Phistus as though in brief telepathic conference.

"I have some questions first," Phistus said, looking sternly to them (though not as sternly as before, Artha hoped).

Artha bowed his head. "I'll do my best to answer."

--

A long session. Kitt had been strangely silent, while he and Parm explained about their powers and how they'd been chosen, why they'd chosen to keep it a secret and _were_ sorry about that, _really_. (He supposed he couldn't blame the Council for being suspicious, not really. But still, they'd helped them out as the Penn crew before, so it wasn't quite fair.)

And then Mortis, mercifully interrupting with his support.

Or at least helpful excuse.

"Dragon Booster. Let the Council hear this," Mortis said; Artha tuned the image display to allow the Crew-leaders to view it.

_Better him than me…_

"A Dragon Priest," Pyrrah said. "What do you want?"

"To call away the Boosters," Mortis replied. "The city is in grave danger. Black draconium force, concentrated deep beneath us…"

The screen changed, showing an image of the signal.

"I will direct the Boosters," Mortis said. "They can defeat this."

An image now of Moordryd, riding surrounded by a sea of dark dragons through equally dark tunnels, purple-black glowing around him.

"He is channelling so much mag-energy, he should be gone…" Khatah blinked, shocked. "Not one of us can fight that level of power!"

"We'll go." Artha replaced his helmet, almost happy at the prospect of facing Moordryd and whatever ancient secret he'd dug up this time rather than the interrogation.

--

"We need to talk, stableboy," Kitt muttered as they headed out.

"What about? I thought we were even after I saved you from Moordryd," he said lightly.

"We _weren't_." Her tone stung him like a trapdoor falling. "You took from me to fight!"

"I needed it to save you." He sounded almost petulant, he thought; but shouldn't she be concentrating on defeating Moordryd, anyway?

"I could've saved myself!"

"I saved you in the first place," he settled for reminding her, shocked at the betrayal. "I gave the powers to you, remember?" The Furox' red energies in Beau, his own first touch of the Fire Booster's amulet; they _counted_ in him as well as for her.

"Yes," she replied coldly. "You won't let me forget it."

"I'm the _hero_," he said at last. "I need to help you—and speaking of which, maybe I need to talk to you about all that time you spent _helping_ Parm!"

He didn't mean it, not really; but it was one thing to throw back at her, and looking at her it seemed it had hit.

"We were trying to help _you_!" she snapped, and brought Wyldfyr ahead of him.

"Artha. You must hurry," he head Mortis say, and thankful for Mortis' directions he took up the pace behind her.

_It was her he cared about. Why were they _being_ like this?_

Through endless tunnels they continued, silently.

"This is to where Moordryd ended up after his possession by the Spirit Booster, isn't it?" Parm asked over the VIDDcomm.

"Yes. The Sea of Gold," said Mortis. "Artha. Do you think Moordryd was taken by…another creature?"

"He seemed like himself at the Council meeting," Artha said. "But before, he—she—he was—something else…"

He didn't want to face the pain she'd put him through. Not yet. Not ever.

"Maybe," he said. "But as long as we defeat him, that doesn't matter."

"You must not allow him to destroy the Sea," Mortis said. "It has declined over the years, and may have released some dark creature it caged—but it is _vital_ to the city. Do you understand?"

"Yeah. Dad. See you there."

--

_His father was dead._

Sobbing words, his mind rainwater and streams. He'd _tried_, Drakkus avenge it, and he'd done nothing.

And she was back, controlling him. Pushing Cain away, when he'd bothered to try to comfort him. He tried to take a shuddering breath, and found himself blocked by her. Calm breathing, in and out at a pace that made him feel like he was suffocating.

Maybe he was. He didn't care. She didn't care.

_What do you want?_ he begged her, again.

She deigned to answer.

_Revenge._

_I…I want to kill them because they killed my father. But to you they…_

Drove her mad, of course. Three thousand years of…whatever she'd felt when she died. He didn't want the detail any more than she did.

_Let's speak frankly_, she said. _He raped me. And I have lived what I felt for him for the past three thousand years._

_Okay, that…sucks_, he dared. _But you're using _me_, and I…_

Eight of them, flooding her with mag-energy. Eight more inside their mind, cold and ancient and so very powerful.

_No!_ She paused. _I own you_, she said. _Now leave me…_

The madness descended.

--

"This fight is for the Boosters," he heard Mortis say to all of them, Artha and Kitt and Lance and himself.

"But there are only three of us, and not five colours of power and balance!" Parm found himself protesting. He was _inexperienced_ at this; Artha was a far better hero, and Kitt's tutoring had shown him how much he had to learn.

"Four," Lance said determinedly. "I'm going with you this time, again."

He heard Mortis sigh. "Stay behind the others, Lance. And be careful."

"But I get to go, right? I get to go?" Lance bounced happily. "I know I'm not the original one, but I've still got the blue influence!"

"I said _be careful_," Mortis said. "But you are right, Lance. Your powers must be united."

_He's ten years old_, Parm thought. And he didn't have a clue on what to do. And there was…something going on between Artha and Kitt, that he probably wouldn't like. And…

…and they had won before, he reminded himself, and they needed to fight the black dragons and Moordryd, who had turned out to have all the Shadow Booster's powers.

He could be a hero. With Artha and his friends around him.

Parmon Sean, heir to the powers of the Spirit Booster, walked proudly into the vast underground Sea of Gold, to fight those who would destroy it.

And promptly fell over, failing to see the harsh wire stretched across the entrance.

--

Kitt saw Moordryd smile as the gold earth reached out black tendrils, dragging Parm to it.

She counted eight black dragons around him, their bonemarks gleaming; it had seemed like more, rushing through the tunnel on the VIDDscreen. She supposed that was a good thing.

And dark shadows around them. As though there were more, hidden in the mists of time.

"_No_—" she heard Artha cry, reaching futilely towards Parm.

Through the darkness beginning to cover him, she saw her friend reach up to Artha, his armour dissolving.

"Artha, take this, join our powers like Mortis said—"

She saw the amulet arch through the air, glistening green, and as his armour melted away Parm flung himself from the tendrils, falling unconscious as his head struck a rock.

_Great. Another power for stableboy._

"So, Moordryd. _Are_ you Moordryd right now?" she asked, letting her flame whip lance through the air to seize the dark figure; he wouldn't beat her this time.

He blocked it, easily. "I lead the Black Empire," he said, and she heard a roar behind her.

Wyldfyr turned; it was dark, and had too many legs, and sharp teeth bearing down on her. She prepared a mag-blast, though fear paralysed her.

"No, Kitt!" she heard Artha scream, and looked _behind_ that thing to see Lance there, like he was covered in some strange smoke.

_It wasn't…real?_

Wyldfyr roared, in pain, and they lashed out behind them to stop the dragon creeping up on them. She saw a red slash opened in Wyldfyr's scales.

A golden mag-shield suddenly appeared, courtesy of Artha; the illusion-dragon crashed into that, falling back.

And then she saw two of them leaping at her, all gleaming claws and opened mouths. She and Wyldfyr fought, together, and she saw them both fall as she hit out with her blocking staff.

_She _could_ do this_, she thought.

Artha's mag-shield had vanished. She looked for him, and saw him frozen as a giant dragon loomed over him, its eyes glowing.

Glowing black, if such a thing was possible. She'd thought it wasn't. But it flung her into darkness as well, and all she could do was remember flame.

_Artha, you're closer, damn you…_

Her ears rung as the dragon screamed, its eyes burning. He turned to her, red-green-gold around his hands.

"I'm starting to _remember_, Kitt, I know who they all are…"

_Fighting the League with fire._

Maybe she could remember. Or maybe she couldn't, and it was he who'd faced Armeggaddon and the League enough times.

She took a deep breath, and threw him her own gauntlet.

_Save their lives, save the world…_

He was…amazing. The illusion-one trapped by her own miasmas, colliding into the dark still one. The blinded one ripping out the spine of the fast one, without seeing. The winged one rising in the sky, brought down by heavy green mag-bursts. His signal to Lance to activate golden patterns on the ceiling, which descended to burn the quiet one. The night-black one split stomach to tail, and the fine-crafted one spitted, on a lance of flame.

They had not been like this once, she thought; but the Samurox had been a king before.

"No. No, no, no—"

Moordryd stood in the centre of the Sea of Gold; his dragon reared, and when she brought down her feet it turned to black.

"It's been…corrupted," Artha called to her. "We were too late—"

The dragon and rider advanced upon him.

"No!"

Lance ran to his brother, the staff in his hands glowing blue, and their mag-shield met Moordryd's head-on.

_Four against one. They'd do it._

She and Wyldfyr sent what energy she could to Artha, like when they'd stopped Libris, and she saw Parm doing the same.

_Four against. It hadn't been enough, the first time. Maybe now the Shadow Booster would be consumed by fire…_

The black miasma of the Sea rose around them, a typhoon swirling around the two central figures.

"You died here," she heard Artha half-whisper, his voice carrying even through the storm. "And you were imprisoned here, and you could not corrupt it to be like you. You were even forgotten, forever, and now you have called all the Eight to you and failed. Now it is time for you to die again."

"It is not over."

Wingflaps coming from somewhere above their heads, and yet she couldn't see anything there.

Another voice. "What is pure can never be banished."

And a flash. "Oh little human, look where I say…"

Darkness touched them.

"_You will die human you will die._"

Fog swirled from the illusion-dragon's shape, twisting itself to a dragon-face guiding the swirling waves. "Human, beware the Dragon."

Voices, without shapes to go with them, as they looked around wildly.

"I will kill you quickly."

"Look into my eyes…"

The black dragon roared, and that seemed to galvanize Beau into action. The two humans flew towards each other, while the dragons waged their own battle below.

"I had it all along," she heard Artha near-whisper, the sound somehow carrying through the cave. "Let's put you back _in gold_."

The six-pointed gold bonemark he'd used to illuminate the way through the tomb of the Boosters. She saw it reflected in Moordryd's eyes, and heard him scream; the dragon's concentration seemed to break, and Beau's claws sunk into its flesh.

Lance brought down the staff to the ground. The darkness left the Sea, flying and dissolving as ghosts were laid to rest. Moordryd's leg was twisted oddly beneath him as he lay still on the ground.

"Well," Artha said. "I guess that's over."

Beau howled, as though in grief that he'd killed. They'd…done a lot, that night.

A sudden explosion; smoke. Kitt coughed, and looked up to see Cain in the distance, running away with Moordryd.

"Let him go," said Mortis, walking with a strangely quiet Tyrannis Pax beside him. "The night is not yet over, Artha."

Kitt watched him bend almost tenderly over the dragon—Decepshun, was she, or did the bonemark on her forehead make her someone else? She didn't know—checking the pulse, gently touching the area around her wounds.

"Is she…dead?" Parm asked.

"No. Help me move her."

They all, somehow, stood at the back of the cave, on a section of stone raised above the nearly empty basin. Five humans, six dragons. One hero, Kitt supposed.

"Decepshun, you must listen to me," she heard Mortis say to the dragon, his voice strangely compelling. "I can save your life. The bonemark in you forced you to war, but you can be yourself now. Just follow with us."

"Doing what?" Lance asked. "I thought we won."

"Using the Sea to return the city to gold," Mortis answered. "Perhaps you remember the first time this happened."

The network. Kitt put a hand behind her to steady herself, and touched smooth rock; when she looked behind, it was pale white. _Bone._

It was the end.

"I remember," said Parm, sounding shocked, as though the words were tearing themselves from his throat. "The last thing he ever did, in some ways, the last he achieved before they returned him to the darkness—"

"Me too," Artha said. "She said it was finished and she was right, it was how we won. It was—what I needed to do. The Sea was part of it, later, how we dealt with all the remnants…"

"I don't." Lance pouted. "But we're supposed to balance again, right?"

"Right," Mortis said. "You know what to do, Artha. Tyrannis Pax's gold to stabilise it; Decepshun's black to be the linchpin. Now hurry."

Artha returned her gauntlet and Parm's; she felt the red armour growing around her again, and looked up at Parm, similarly attired. She wondered briefly if he felt the same as her after lending his powers.

Well. At least she'd made it to this point this time, she decided, and joined her energy to the Sea of Gold.

_Andraste of fire, Myrtin the warrior, Utan the king, Tieran the hero, the wounded Black..._

--

They were very suddenly high up when Artha opened his eyes. Waiting above who knew how many tonnnes of golden draconium, some flowing through to the network. Tyrannis Pax' scales glowed brightly.

They'd done it in one step this time. Not bad for the new Dragon Booster, and with only one Black representative. He looked down where Decepshun had been; she had vanished, only a few scrapings on the floor showing that she had lain there at all.

"Moordryd…tried to kill you," Lance said shakily.

"It's over now," Mortis replied, his arm around his younger son. "You did well, Lance. Artha?"

Artha shook his head, feeling himself returning to awareness. "You'd better give it back," he said, returning Tyrannis Pax' mark; and looked across at Kitt and Parm.

His friends. He could feel their powers like he could his own.

Kitt smiled at him, like she'd done before. "Not bad, hero boy," she said, like he'd have wanted her to say after he'd saved the world.

"Hey. You're not so bad yourself," he said, and then she kissed him.

It was _her_.

--

They had gone up, through Down City and Mid City, seeing the new golden dragons and answering people's inquiries as they were welcomed as heroes. They entered the Sun City Academy boldly, ready to be acknowledged as the city's saviours; it was Sentrus who fought against them alongside the controlled formerly-black dragons, oddly enough. They found out later that Moordryd had placed her under control gear; he wished that he hadn't had to hurt her so much.

And that was how he had won. It was golden, and glorious; he looked to Kitt, and his friends and family around him, and thought that it was good.

--

_She remembered that day with Andra, riding across the fields just outside the practice grounds. Almost perfect, the sun still shining as evening approached, Andra's fire beside her as the Vivat slightly curbed her speed to keep pace with the Samurox. Myrtin slowed as they turned back to the keep's walls, preserving the moment._

"_Thank you for accompanying me," she said._

"_No need for formalities," Andra replied. She looked regal even without her armour, a red lady astride a bright dragon. "I'm almost glad Utan and Tieran managed to destroy Revyan Bridge; it's given us time."_

"_We can only take what comes—and for now, that is good," Myrtin said._

"_An excellent philosophy; I believe in living for the moment," said Andraste. "To seize what gold is offered."_

"_Or red," Myrtin returned with a smile._

"_Or blue, for that matter." She turned to her friend, suddenly serious. "If I give my word that this is the last time I will ask: will you abandon all this and run away with me once the war is over?_

_She shook her head. "I can't abandon. You are the closest friend I have, but—"_

"_But you are concerned for Tieran?" Andra asked swiftly._

_Myrtin shook her head, almost ruefully. "I have looked after him since we were children together; I suppose it's habit. And I was…concerned, all those years ago, when I'd thought I'd lost him. I don't want anything like it to happen again."_

_Andraste laughed, transforming the subject to lighter choices. "You're using your grim-death look again. Is mine like that, just before battles?"_

"_You look like the knife-edge of a lava flow. It's rather intimidating."_

"_Poetic. You may have missed your true calling. Did you ever wish to be anything other than Warrior? Tieran ran away to the diplomatic service, and Utan was a king, of course—"_

_She paused. "Not that I recall. Maybe I had dreams of being a rescued princess, like every young girl—foolish, I know," she added quickly. "But I knew what I had to do, and got around to doing it, eventually."_

_The Samurox nodded._

"_I didn't have to give up anything," Myrtin continued. "You gave up a great deal."_

"_I gave up mercenary work to prove my mother wrong about the prophecies, and I'm still not sure she isn't," Andraste said, making a dismissive gesture. "My friend, tell me again why you fight."_

"_You're being silly, Andra," said Myrtin. "We're fighting for an end of it, all of us. Because someone needs to stop the fighting and we're the only ones who can. As well as being a dashing rebel, in your case."_

"_You always were the best and truest of all of us," Andra said._

"_It's not so—without you as friends I would be gone—" she began to answer; but Andraste sped forward with the Vivat, and the Samurox and his Warrior raced after her._

_True to her word, Andraste did not ask again._

_She remembered it a year later to the day, when her best friend died._

_She remembered it two years later, when they turned the last remnant of Andraste to gold, and afterwards she destroyed her powers to prevent their abuse, as though she was the hero Andra had believed her to be._

_She remembered it three years later, when another of those who had loved Andraste was returned to the world of the dead, when she attended a brief ceremony over an empty coffin for another death._

_She remembered it four years later, when she and Tieran were wed in full ceremony._

_She remembered it ten years later, when what remained of the shells of Andra and Utan was carried up to the tomb in the sun, and because of their sacrifice Tieran strengthened his reputation as a king._

_She remembered it twenty years later, a grey old woman wondering where her husband was._

_She remembered it in what had become ritual for her, sitting in her sunlit study and pouring a second cup of tea, Andra's pale hand almost touching hers as they talked as they had always done._

_She remembered, and knew she saw ghosts as she aged and the glory faded from the world she had made; and when it was time to pass from it, she knew she would see her friend there._

--

Moordryd Paynn entered his father's Citadel for the last time, his leg in a rough splint as he leaned on Cain's shoulder. They explored it from top to bottom as outside the Dragon Booster continued his triumphal procession, Cain packing away anything they thought would be useful in the days ahead. He learned what had happened to his father's wraiths when he opened a cold storage door that he and Cain immediately closed afterwards, their bodies cubed to fill the freezer space as efficiently as possible with the pale chunks of flesh.

Meggine had considered them abomination, he recalled numbly. She'd committed several herself.

_Perhaps you were partly right_, he heard a still, small voice say, buried deep within him.

--


End file.
